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Wi^t Hibrarp 

of tf)e 

^nibersiitp of i^ortl) Carolina 

Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2012 with funding from 

University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 



Illustrated Magazine 

For Young Folks 



Part I., November, 1887, to April, 



Copyright, i838, by The Century Co. 

The De Vinne Press. 

Library, Univ. of 
Norths ^src^Jina 




Six Months — November, 1887, to April, 1888. 



Accidental High Art. (Illustrated by the Author) Edgar Mayhew Bacon 385 

Affluent Aztec, The : A Hieroglyphic Fragment. Jingle. (Illustrated by \ 

the Author) ^-^^ ^- ^*™""^ -^4 

Agassiz Association, A Report Concerning the Harlan II. Ballard 76 

Amateur Agriculturalist, The: An Aztec Fragment. Jingle. (lUus- ) 

trated by the Author) ^ -^- ^^- P''"""' +43 

Amuse.ments of Arab Children, The. (Illustrated by Harry Fenn) Henry IV. Jessup 174 

Ancient Haunt of Pirates, An. (Illustrated by E. W. Kemble) Eugene V. Smalley 323 

Another Me. Poem Alice Wellington Rollins . . . 316 

April Bill of Fare, An. Picture, drawn by Margaret Johnson 41S 

Arab Children, The Amusements of. (Illustrated by Harry Fenn) Henry W. Jessup 174 

Astrologer's Niece, The. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Tudor Jenks 2S9 

Babes in the Wood, The. A Game. (Illustrated by the Author) Frank Belh-o 234 

Balboa. Poem. (Illustrated by Frank Day) A^ora Perry 202 

Ballad of the Blacksmith's Sons, The. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. \ 

■o- \.\ \ ^larv E. IVilkins 90 

Ballad of the Rubber-plant and the Palm, The. Verses. (Illustrated t 

by Felix Broessel) \ '■^''" ^^''^"'"S^"" r.olhns .... 464 

Balloon, Three Miles High in .\. (Illustrated by E. W. Kemble and > 

r , , , , \ Edward Duffy 135 

from photographs) ^ ■"■' ^^ 

Bastien-Lepage, Jules : A Peasant Painter. (Illustrated by engravings 

of paintings by Jules Bastien-Lepage) ^ ' /^ '.' " ' J 

Bear that had a B.ank Account, The. (Illustrated by G. W. 'EA\\!i.rAs).HJalmar HJorlh Boyesett .... 106 
Belated Barber, The: An Aztec Fragment. Jingle. (Illustrated by the > 

Author) r- ^- ^""""^ '"^ 

Ben's Proxy. (Illustrated by C. G. Bush) IVilliam O. Stoddard 450 

Best of All. Poem. (Illustrated by W. L. Taylor) H. C. Bunner 129 

Boy Who Was Sent to the Dentist, The. Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 398 

Bronzed Kid Shoes, The. Poem Marion Douglas 359 

Brown Dwarf OF Rugen, The. Poem. (Illustrated by E. H. Blashfield). .Tote G?w»A'fl/" W/k/Z/w- .. 163 

(j- Brownies and the Whale, The. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) . . . .Palmer Cox 304 

-- Brownies in the Academy, The. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) . . Palmer Cox 465 

■^ Buck and Old Billy. (Illustrated by E. W. Kemble) R. M. Jolmston 32 

^ Child and Poet. Poem. (Illustrated by W. de Meza) Edith M. Thomas i.)4 

-- Children's Christmas Club of Washington City, The. (Illustrated \ 

by R. F. Bunner and E. L. Meeker) \ ^J""""^ ■■i'l"' >46 



Child-sketches from George Eliot. (Illustrated) ... Julia Magruder . . . 190, 369, 410 

" Felix Holt " 190 

" Daniel 1 >eionda " 369 

" Silas Marner " 410 

Christmas Club, The Children's. (Illustrated by R. F. Bunner and > 

E. L. Meeker) \ Edmimd Alton 146 

Clocks of Rondaine, The. (Illustrated by E. H. Blashfield) Frank R. Stockton 83, 192 

Cupid's Kettledrum. Poem. (Illustrated by Alberline Randall) Clara G. Dollivcr 2£o 

" Daniel Deronda." (" Child sketches from George Eliot " ) Julia Magruder 369 

Dear Little Schemer, A. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) M. M. D 88 

Dece.mbeR. Poem F7-ank Dempster Sherman . . 96 

Decorative Head-piece. Drawn by H. L. Bridwell 444 

Diamond-backs in Paradise. (Illustrated by E. J. Meeker from photo- 
graphs, and by J. C. Beard) 

Drill: A Story of School-eoy Life. (Illustrated by F. T. Merrill) lohn Preston True . 2gc), 379, 444. 

Easter Morning. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author) Lizbeth B. Coinins 416 

Edward Athov. (Illustrated by W. H. Drake) Roy MeTavish 360, 432 

Elephants at Work. (Illustrated by J. M. Nugent and others) John R. Coryell 40 

" Feli.\ Holt." ("Child-sketches from George Eliot") Julia Magruder igo 

First Christmas-tree in New England, The. (Illustrated by A. E. 

Charles Ilejirv JJ'eM) , . .263 

(-., , { Sarali J. Priehard I'50 

Sterner) ^ -^ 

"First Class in Botany. — Ple-^se Rise!" Picture, drawn by Mary Hal- 
lock Foote 31 

First Steps. Poem. (Illustrated by Mary Hallock Footej M. M. D 449 

From My Window. Poem Einilie Poulsson 439 

Girls' Military Company, A. (Illustrated by H. A. Ogden) Lieut. W. R. Hamilton 224 

Going ! Going ! Verse. (Illustralive initial by A. Lrernan) A. R. ]Vclls 134 

Going Home with Autumn Leaves. Picture, drawn by C. F. Siedle 78 

Good Advice. Verse Emilie Poulsscn 368 

" Ham " Estabrook's Can-opener. (Illustrated by 11. A. Ogden) George P. Whittlesey 453 

Handiwork for Girls. (Illustrated by the Author) Ella S. IFelc/i 474 

" He Barks Every Time I Try to Taste It." Picture 216 

Held i.n Bondage. Picture, from a photograph 153 

Historic Girls. (Illustrated by H. A. Ogden) . E. S. Brooks 26 

Ma-ta-oka of Pow-lia-tan 26 

PIoBART Treasure, The. (Illustrative head-piece by W. H. Drake) Helen Campbell 342 

Housekeeping Songs. (Illustrated by Miss L. B. Humphrey) . . \ '''^'""'^ ^^ ^'^^'"'>' -^^ -^""1"" \ .... 228, 468 

I Music by Theresa C. Holmes \ 

How A Great Sioux Chief was Named. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers). .Lieut, pycderick Selnoatka . . .296 

How Marie Obtained Miss Alcott's Autograph. (Illustrated) '^Diogenes Ttibb" 58 

How Polly Saw the Aprons Grow. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Delia IV. Lyman 272 

How the Hart Boys Saw Great Salt Lake. (Illustrated by M. J. Burns) . J. T. Trowbridge 121 

How the Yankees Came to Blackwood. (Illustrated by E. W. Kemble) . . Louise Herrick 210 

How to Make a Paper Ball. (Illustrated by diagrams) George G. Dean 397 

Innocence. Poem Edith M. Thomas 118 

" Is Everybody at Home ? " Picture, drawn by A. Brennan 190 

Jingles 35,39,67,119,128,134,204,220,368,431,443 

luNO. ( Illustrated by C. E. Moss) .4nnie Houiells Frechette 54 

Last Chance of Life, The: An Egyptian Adventure. (Illustrated by H. 

A. Ogden) 

Legend of Acadia, A. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) C. F. Holder 294 

Letter Cake, The Sophie May 221 

Little Coffee-tot, A. Jingle. (Illustrated by Albert E. Sterner) Alice Wellington Rollins. . . . 431 

Little Matti of Finland. (Illustrated by Helen M. Hinds) Sanna Steen 46 

London Christmas Pantomimes. (Illustrated by Joseph Pennell and ) 

, , , , > Elizabeth Robins Pennell .... ISO 

from photographs) ) 

Lullaby. Poem E. Cavazza 288 

Da7'id A'er 



Mary McGee's Happy Disposition. Verse. (Illustrated by Albert E. Sterner). ^//« Wellington Rollins 67 

Ma-ta-oka of Pow-ha-tan. (Illustialed by H. A. Ogden) E. S. Brooks 26 

Matter of Opinion, A: An Aztec Hieroglyph. Jingle. (Illustrated by) 

the Author) $ ■^- ^^- ^""'"" 39 

Michael and Feodosia. (Illustrated by E. H. Elaslilield) Amelia E. Burr 243 

Morning Compliments. Verses Sydney Dayre 209 

My Other Me. Poem Gmce Denia Litchfield 45 

Nanny's Sketching. Verses. (Illustrated by Rose Mueller Sprague) Alice P. Carter 470 

New Year, The. Picture 238 

Nothing is Easier. Jingle Emilie Pmihson 128 

November. Poem Frank Dempster Sherman .... 61 

"Now She 's Off! " Picture, drawn by \V. P. Bodfish 405 

Onatoga's .Sacrifice. (Illustrated by George D. Brush) Jolin Diniitry 376 

Pansies. (Illustrated by Albert E. Sterner) Louisa M. Alcott 12 

Pansies for Thoughis. Poem. (Illustrated by A. R. Wheelan) F. LL llheelan 353 

Pantomi.mes, London Ciiristm.\s. (Illustrated by Joseph Pennell and from 

, . , { Elizabeth Robins Pennell . . . . iSo 


Peasant King, The. (Illustrated by Oliver Herford) R. LC. ULunkittrick 217 

Peasant Painter, A: Jules Bastien-Lepagc. (Illustrated by ongravings of ^ 

. ,. 1 T 1 r. .■ T \ r Ripley LLitchcock 3 

pamtings by Jules Bastien-Lepage) ) ■^- ■^ 

People We Meet, The. (Illustrated by II. A. Ogden) Frank R. Stockton 347 

Personally Conducted. (Illustrated) Frank R. Stockton 347 

The People VVe Meet 347 

Pictures 31, 53. 75, 78, 153, 158, 190, 197, 201, 216, 221, 238, 293, 29S, 313, 318, 368, 39S, 405, 41S, 439, 478 

Pictuhes for Little French Readers. Drawn by Lizbeth B. Comins 53, 293, 439 

Pictures for Little German Readers. Drawn by Lizbeth 1!. Comins 15S, 197 

Pig that Nearly Caused a War, A. (Illustrated by C. J. Taylor) Julian Ralph 371 

Pincushion, A. (Illustrated by H. A. Ogden and F. Childe Hassam) Emma LCiil Parrish 150 

Poor Mr. Brown R. J/. Johnstor^ 198 

Prince Tiptoe. Poem. (Illustrated by Francis Day) Ilaitie Whitney 20 

Ready for Spuing Work. Picture, after a painting by Harry Pooro 368 

Red Partridge Tells his Story, The. (Illustrated by I. R. Wiles) Maria Ellery MacLuiye 407 

Regular Boy, A. Verses. (Illustrated by R. B. Biicli) George Cooper 3SS 

Report Concerning the Agassiz Association, A Harlan FI. Ballard 76 

Rhyme for a Rainy Day, A. Verses. (Illustrated by H. A. Ogden) .... Julia JiL Colton 406 

Santa Claus in the Pulpit. (Illustrated by Mary Hallock J'oote and R. ) j^ . . ni dd 

F. Banner) ) 

Sara Cuewe; or, What Happened at Miss Minchin's. (Illustrated by > ;, lt j r^ ,, 

' > rrances L/odrson httrnett .... 97 

R. B. Birch) S . 

16S, 252 

Settling the Question. Verses. (Illustrated by Francis Dayand Gaston Fay) . Emma C. Doiud 62 

She " Displains " It. Verses James Whitcomb Riley 276 

Short Cur Homeward, A. Picture, drawn by A. Brennan 29S 

"Silas Marner." (" Child-sketches from George Eliot") Julia Magrudcr 410 

Small Dog's Fright, A. Picture, drawn by Frank Bellew 318 

Some Work for Lent. (Illustrated from a design by the Author) Louise Stockton 392 

Spanish Tale, A : Told in the Spanish Wav. (Illustrated by the Author, } 

/-. 1 . . . 1 T,fl- . . ' { Almont Barnes ^6 

ofter drawings by Apeles Meslres) \ -> 

Story of an Old Bridge, The. (Illustrated by A. Brennan, D. Clinton > 

Peters, and others) \^Treadwell Walden 277 

Symp.\thetic Reader, K. Verse. (Illustrated) A. R. Wells 220 

Tables Turned, The. (Illustrated by Jas. Monks) " Glaucus" 418 

Three Miles High in a Balloon. (Illustrated by E. W. Kemble and \ 

from photographs) \ ^"^"""''^ ^"•^' '35 

Tick Tock. Verses Maria J. L/ammond 197 and (Illustrated by E. W. Kemble) Delia W. Lyman 64 

Timid Little Woman, A. Verses. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Malcolm Douglas 250 




Tom's Ride. (Illustrated by George Inness, Jr., and F. Remington) Robert E. Teiier. 354 

Tracks in the Snow. (Illustrated by the Author) Ernest E. T/tompsoii 338 

Trudel's Siege. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) Louisa M. Alcott 421 

Two Surprises. Poem. (Illustrated by A. L. Brennan) R. \V. McAlpine 374 

Very Good Girl, A. Jingle Mrs. George Archibald .... 35 

" We and Our Dollies." Picture, from a photograph by G. Cox 201 

What a Little Girl Thinks Would Make Her Very Happy. Picture,) 

drawn by Jessie McDermott ^ 

What Did the Butcher Boy Say ? Julian Ralph 223 

What Happened to the Bridegroom. (Illustrated by the .\uthor) IViltiaiu Theodore Peters ... 68 

What Makes It Rain ? George P. Ulen-ill 403 

" What 's in a Name ? " Katharine Scott Kelso 21 

What the Butcher Boy Said Julian Ralph 469 

When Grandpapa was a Baby. Picture, drawn by R. B. Birch 221 

Where the Christmas-tree Grew. (Illustrated by Albert E. Sterner). . . .Mary E. IVilkins 205 

Winter Elf, A. Poem. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) Amelie Rives 120 

Wonderful Wall, A. (Illustrated by the Author) .S. Mary Norton 314 

Wreck of the " Lizzie J. Clark," The. (Illustrated from photographs) . .Louie Lyndon 440 

For Very Little Folk. (Illustrated.) 

How They Came to Have the Picnic Margaret Eytinge 70 

The Cat's Answer to the Doll's Story E. B. Mastick, Jr. 152 

" Held in Bondage." (Picture) 153 

Four Foolish Persons Joel Stacy 230 

The Story of Small Rooster Margaret Eytinge 307 

The Dolls' Complaint N. P. Babcock 310 

Nursery Jingle 4. E. B 390 

Elsie's Pet ■ ■ Mrs. Janet Ruutz-Rees 390 

Plays and Music. 

TT , . r. ^Ti, 1 1 T,T- T T^ TT 1 X ^ Words bv Ma7y J. Jacques. . . ) 

Housekeepmg Songs. (Illustrated by Miss L. B. Humphrey) .( „ . , ', ■ ^ ', > 

^ " ^ ^ ^ r J / ^ Music by Theresa C. L/oliues ^ 

House-cleaning Time 2z8 

Washing Day 468 

Jack-in-the-Pulpjt. (Illustrated.) 

Introduction — The Harvest Spider — Webs as Barometers — The King-bird — A Fairy Oak-tree — Straws 
which Show How the Wind Blows — A Mysterious Errand — K Great Electric Light — Preparations for 
Thanksgiving Day (picture), 74; Introduction — Some Famous Christmas Pies — To the Kind-hearted — 
Really, It is Queer — A Little Girl's Composition (illustrated), 154; Introduction — A Good Old Custom — 
Another Jack — "Cat-bird" Parents — You Do Not See Them All — The Porcupine's First Cousin (illus- 
trated) — A Soft Spot, 232 ; Introduction — Why Hartshorn ? — His Mother's Boy — An Amazonian Village — 
The Maguey — Cactus Fences — A Desirable Lodging — .A. Bill of Fare for February (picture), 312; Intro- 
duction — Inaugural Addresses — Long and Sliort Lives — What Is It ? — Grown-up Little Folk — The Rock- 
ing-stone (illustrated), 394 ; Introduction — How Shall We Say" Arbutus " ? — Those Bird-mothers Again — 
The Sun as a Fire-extinguisher — The Jack-screw and Other Jacks — "Why Hartshorn? " Answered — How 
is That"? — Trailing .Arbutus (illustrated), 472. 

The Letter-box. (Illustrated) 77, 156, 236, 316, 396, 476 

The Riddle-box. (Illustrated) 79, 159, 239, 319, 399, 479 

Editorial Notes 77 


"Grandfather Lepage," from the painting by Jules Bastien-Lepage, facing Title-page of Volume — "Aria and 
the Sacristan," by E. H. Blashfield, facing page 83 — "The Brown Dwarf of Riigen," by E. H. Blashfield, 
facing page 163 — " Family Affairs," by Mary Hallock Foote, facing page 243 — " Little Babie Stuart," from 
the painting by Van Dyck, facing page 323 — " An April Day," by R. B. Birch, facing page 403. 

G R A N D i-' A 1' H Ji R LEPAGE. 

(SEE PAGE 7.) 


Vol. XV, 

NOVEMBER, 1887. 

No. I. 


By Ripley Hitchcock. 

In the Department of the Meuse, in north- 
western France, is the httle farming village of 
Damvillers, a mere handful of cottages dropped 
in the midst of rolling plains which are dotted 
with vineyards and ruled off by straight rows of 
slender poplars. The well in the village square 
is the morning meeting-place of women who clat- 
ter over the stones in their wooden shoes to fill 
their water pails. Presently you may see the 
men leaving their cottage doors on their way to 
work among the vines or in the potato-fields out- 
side the village. Between their fields and their 
cottages they spend their lives. These peasants 
do not go away from home. They care most for 
the prospects of their crops. Their only time of 
merrymaking is the village_/2Vt'. They are interested 
in what they can see, and understand, and handle. 

But, strangely enough, among them grew up a 
peasant, one of themselves, whose eyes were keen 
enough to see that this out-of-door life was beauti- 
ful; that these figures laboring in the fields were 
endowed with a nobility of their own, and that the 
orchards and vineyards and grassy pastures of 
Damvillers were pictures in themselves. 

I suppose that no other of the peasants ever 
thought whether their life was beautiful or not. 
They were obliged to work hard, and when the 
work was done, they were hungry and tired, and 
that was all. 

Now, this young peasant, who was never so 

hungry or tired as to forget the beauty of the 

scenes around him, lived exactly like the others. 

He was born, it is now thirty-seven years since, in 

Copyright, 1887, by The Cen 

a little stone cottage with an odd thatched roof, 
which stands at the corner of the village square. 
There are only four rooms in this cottage, and of 
these rooms the pleasantest was the large kitchen 
where his father and grandfather used to sit before 
a great open fire-place in which hung a generous 
pot filled with bubbling pot an fen, or the " soup 
of black beans," for which his mother was famous. 
Jules Bastien, the father, had been a cooper, 
making casks for the wine from the vineyards, but 
by and by he saved money enough to buy a vine- 
yard for himself Grandfather Lepage, too, was of a 
thrifty disposition, and from the earnings of his 
hard work he had saved a little sum of which he 
made good use, as we shall see. Behind the cot- 
tage and the barn was a delightful garden, where 
the young Jules and his brother Emile used to play 
among rows of hollyhocks and poppies, and under 
the shade of some old apple-trees. Many years 
afterward this play-ground became famous, as I 
shall tell you. 

As the peasant boy Jules grew up, his mornings 
were no longer spent in play, but he trudged off 
after his father to work among the vines. Every 
one worked at Damvillers, and so Jules Bastien 
saw about him every day the men and women 
moving up and down the rows of vines, bending 
over the hills of potatoes, spreading hay in the 
fields or resting at noon, and the boys and girls 
tending the cows in the pastures. There was a 
sensitive brain behind his eyes, and something 
there was touched by these things. 

Another boy equally sensitive might have written 

TURV Co. All rights reserved. 



rude verses. Jules began to draw the sights before 
him. He sketched the women drawing water at 
the well, and the strong-armed laborers in the 
fields. Once he saw some soldiers, and the brill- 
iant colors of their uniforms appealed to him. 
So he drew soldiers for a time, and Madame Bas- 
tien, with a mother's loving pride, gathered and 
kept his rough drawings and showed them to any 
one who came to see her. 1 suppose Father 
Bastien looked with little favor at first upon 
this everlasting spoiling of paper. Probably he 
thought that Jules could use his time far more 
profitably in the fields. But the boy's interest in 
vine-growing was the interest of an artist, not of a 
wine-maker. He was sent to school, but the prizes 
which he brought home from the college of Ver- 
dun, a neighboring town, all were prizes in draw- 
ing. Then he looked toward Paris. At first his 
father was dismayed at the sacrifices of a life of art, 
and wished him to enter a scientific or military 
college. But Jules was resolved to become an 

Now in France art is recognized and encouraged 
by the government. In many towns as well as 
cities there are free art-schools, and scholarships 
are established for the assistance of promising 
students. All this has been a matter of course for 
so long that the people of France, even the peas- 
ants, have grown to understand the dignity of art as 
a profession. Accordingly, if a French boy wishes 
to become an artist, his choice is regarded as 
worth respectful consideration ; while in America, 
where art receives no recognition from national, or 
State, or city governments, the adoption of art as 
a profession is looked upon very differently, even 
by people much better educated than the French 
peasants. In other words, art is a part of the very 
life of France, but it is as yet only a feeble trans- 
planted growth in America. 

So it was not deemed a crazy and unheard-of 
project when Jules Bastien asked to go to Paris, to 
devote his life seriously to art. But his father, 
a well-to-do peasant, could not support Jules during 
his term of study. Nevertheless, at the age of 
sixteen he left Damvillers for Paris. Too proud 
to become a burden to his family, he obtained a 
supernumerary clerkship in the post-office, and 
his leisure was given to the study of art. He 
remained in this uncongenial position for eight 

But Grandfather Lepage, who was as confident 
as IVIother Bastien of the young man's future, 
came to the lad's aid with the savings from his 
toil ; and this help, with a pension of a hundred 
francs (about twenty dollars) monthly, from home 
(according to one account, the income from a 
scholarship fund), enabled the young peasant to 

* Pronounced bo-zar. 

t Drawing class in the 

enter the Beaux Arts," as the chief academic 
school of fine arts is familiarly called. 

Jules's home in Paris was a tiny garret in one of 
the narrow, quaint streets of the Latin Quarter, 
which has sheltered so many generations of stu- 
dents. All day long he was at work. He studied at 
the Municipal Coiirs\ of drawing and heard lectures 
upon anatomy at the School of Medicine. He was 
admitted to the studio of Cabanel, and there he 
zealously worked at his easel through the day, sur- 
rounded by young art students much given to 
practical jokes upon each other. But Bastien was 
too much in earnest for joking. 

Occasionally an erect, dignified man, with white 
beard and snowy hair, half hidden beneath a black 
velvet skull-cap, walked through the great room, 
pausing at this easel and at that for a word of 
praise or criticism. This was Cabanel, who is 
counted a famous artist ; and yet all Jules's idea of 
art were opposed to those of his master. Cabanel 
is known as an " academic " painter. His pictures 
are correct according to the rules of the schools, 
but beyond this they excite no particular feeling. 
He paints models as historic or mythological char- 
acters, but in all his later pictures, at least, you 
think only of the well-trained artist painting pretty 
models in his studio. His characters are not 

Now, Jules Bastien wished to get away from 
this academic art, and from the traditions of the 
schools, and to paint nature. As I have told you, 
he saw the beautiful side of the out-door peasant- 
life at Damvillers, and he wished to render this 
real life just as he saw it. So, while the elementary 
training in Cabanel's studio was useful, and while 
he gained a knowledge of his tools, the pupil and 
master were really as far apart as the poles. And 
the truth is that the pupil was a man of stronger 
individuality than the master. 

Jules Bastien was just beginning to put his 
training to use when war was declared between 
the French and the Prussians. He enlisted in a 
company of Francs-tireurs ,% and it is said that the 
commander, M. Castellani, an artist, saved his life. 
Jules Bastien's health was poor, and his spirits so 
clouded by the disappointments of his early strug- 
gles, that he exposed himself rashly in every battle, 
as if more than willing to be killed. M. Castellani, 
who knew the young artist's talent and promise, 
remonstrated with him ; but still Jules was found 
in the front of every encounter. 

At last, he was slightly wounded. Against his 
will, M. Castellani sent him to a military hospital 
in Paris, and privately asked the directress and the 
physician to find reasons for keeping Jules from 
rejoining his company. They did so. When his 
wound was healed, he was told that his general 

MLlnicip.^l School of Design. J Sharpshooters. 



health was too poor to admit of his discharge, and 
he was kept at the hospital, an unconscious pris- 
oner, until the war was at an end. 

This was a time of struggle and poverty, these 
early days of Jules Bastien's career. He was glad 
to draw designs for a fashion journal, and once he 
went down to Damvillers and painted forty por- 
traits of the villagers. The cost of living, small as 

Saint-Benoit. In the evenings Jules, his brother 
Emile, who was a student of architecture, and 
other friends met at an odd little cafe behind the 
Odeon, and talked of art, among clouds of smoke. 
In those early days he painted a picture of a 
peasant girl walking in a forest, in spring, en- 
trapped by Loves who were casting their nets before 
her feet. This picture was accepted at the Salon 


his expenses were, was a serious matter. For the in 1873, through the influence of Cabanel, but it 

rent of his little attic studio he paid fifty dollars a was not sold. It was the first painting that Jules 

year. He breakfasted upon three sous'* worth of Bastien exhibited, and its fate was a curious one. 

bread and two of coffee, with milk. For dinner. Kind-hearted Mademoiselle Anna understood the 

at a franc and a half, about twenty-seven cents, he needy state of the young artists who visited her 

went to the restaurant of Mademoiselle Anna, Rue restaurant, and Bastien was her favorite. When 

* About three cents. 




he lacked the franc and a half for dinner, she 
cheerfully gave him credit, and finally she accepted 
this picture in payment for a year's dinners. After- 
ward, when the name of the artist became famous, 
she was offered four times the amount of her bill 
for the painting, but she refused to part with it, and 
kept the first work of her protege until her death. 
So the young peasant painter made loyal friends in 
his days of adversity. And, however bitter his dis- 
appointments might be, he never failed to recog- 

Salon, because nearly two hundred years ago a 
man named Mansard first instituted exhibitions of 
works by living artists in the Grand Salon of the 
Louvre, a government building devoted to art. 

In 1874 Jules Bastien brought to Paris a picture 
which he had painted at Damxillers. He showed 
it in his studio to some friends and listened to their 
praise and suggestions. Then, doubtless with 
many fears, he sent it to \\\& Salon. It was accepted 
by the jury who decide upon admissions. The 


nize the merits of work done by more success- 
ful brother artists. He was neither jealous nor 
envious. But for a time he was very poor and 

Then his simple earnestness began to gain its 
reward. Every year in June there is held in Paris, 
at the Palace of Industry, a great exhibition of 
paintings, sculptures, and other works of art, which 
offers young artists their chief opportunity to make 
themselves a name. This exhibition is called the 

opening day came, — and suddenly the young 
peasant painter heard all Paris talking of his 

What was it? 

He had simply painted the good Grandfather 
Lepage sitting under the apple-trees in the garden 
at DamviUers, with his handkerchief carelessly 
spread across his knees, just as Jules Bastien had 
seen him a thousand times. This was the truth 
of nature, and the people who crowded around the 



'the first communion." from the painting B\ BASTIEN Lbl \UE (SEE FACE lO ) 

picture recognized it. The artist had signed it 
Jules Bastien-Lepage, that his grandfather's name 
might share the praise bestowed upon the painter. 
For the young peasant never forgot that his 
grandfather gave him the means of studying art. 
He divided his first laurel crown with his bene- 

Hundreds of pens wrote eulogies upon Jules 
Bastien-Lepage. Here is what one French critic 
said : 

"Diderot exclaimed to an artist, ' You have made 
for me my father as he is on Sundays, and I want my 
father as he is every day,' meaning that one ought 
to paint a man as he is, familiarly, in the habitual 
condition of his actions and life. But that which 
makes the merit of the portrait shown by Bastien- 

Lepage is that it is a portrait of every day — that is 
to say, excellent and durable." 

Every one saw that this artist was in earnest, 
that he was absolutely sincere, that he had gone 
out of doors to nature, and was honestly trying to 
represent what he found. His brother artists recog- 
nized his independence. The jurors voted him a 

His first triumph was shared by his friends, 
seven of whom went down to join him at Dam- 
villers, where, as they drove into the village, they 
came upon Madame Bastien clattering across the 
square in her wooden sabots with a pail of water in 
each hand. The village /t% was at hand, and the 
light-hearted artists danced and made merry with 
the young peasants. But Jules was not idle. Out 




in the garden, his former playground, he painted 
the portrait of his parents, — a picture which has 
since become famous. 

Then he returned to his Paris attic in a narrow- 
street hghted at night by kerosene lamps swinging 
from chains stretched from house to house. He 
had gained recognition, but still no commissions 
for pictures came to him, and his purse grew leaner 
and leaner. 

Now, the greatest prize of the many honors open 
to young French artists is the Prix de Rome. The 
winner is sent to Rome to study for four years 
in the French Academy, the president of which 
is an officer of the Academy of Fine Arts at Paris. 
The government allows the young artist four thou- 
sand francs, or nearly eight hundred dollars yearly, 
and for four years after his return the allowance 
is continued from the fund of Madame Caen. 
So for eight years he can devote himself to art 
undisturbed by any thoughts of money. Moreover, 
the painting to which the prize is given is hung in 
the Academy of Fine Arts, with the pictures suc- 
cessful in the competitions of preceding years. No 
wonder that Jules Bastien-Lepage set his heart 
upon winning the Prix de Rome. 

The competition is accompanied with curious 
formalities. Every design submitted is covered 
with tracing-paper, which is sealed down, and a 
tracing of it made. This is to prevent the artists 
from changing the designs after they are handed 
in. Only a few very slight alterations are per- 
mitted, and these in accordance with rigorous 
rules. The artists selected for the excellence 
of their designs to enter the competition are 
obliged to remain shut up in separate rooms and 
carefully watched for ninety days, so that each 
shall paint his picture without any outside assist- 
ance. Then a jury of distinguished artists exam- 
ines the work, and awards the prize. 

The subject given out in 1874 was the " Annun- 
ciation to the Shepherds " who watched their 
flocks in the fields by night, when the angel 
appeared to them and announced the birth of 

Upon this picture Bastien-Lepage worked most 
earnestly. When it was finished, he felt con- 
fident of success ; but when the day came for mak- 
ing known the award, and Bastien-Lepage, with 
his eager friends, gathered at the Beaux Arts, 
an ominous whisper was heard that the jury had 
given the prize to Comerre. The rumor was con- 
firmed. Cabanel, Bnstien-Lepage's master, had 
voted against his pupil, it was said ; and the excited 
students fiercely hissed the old artist when he 
appeared from the jury-room. Bastien-Lepage, 
broken-hearted by the disappointment, exclaimed 
bitterly : 

" It appears, then, that these juries don't know 
how to use their eyes." 

Afterward it was said that the jury decided 
against him chiefly upon technical grounds ; one 
reason being that the Annunciation occurred at 
night, while Bastien-Lepage painted it as if late in 
the afternoon. 

That evening all the artists met at dinner in the 
restaurant of Mademoiselle Anna. On the smoky 
walls hung pictures by artists who had frequented 
the place, and all the pictures by men who had 
gained the Prix de Rome were decorated with 
wreaths of laurel. Comerre, the winner, and Bas- 
tien-Lepage, the loser, sat at adjoining tables, each 
surrounded by his friends. As the dinner drew to a 
close a young American painter rose beside Bastien- 
Lepage and said, " Let us crown the picture of 
the man to whom the artists have awarded the Prix 
de Rome." 

He held up a laurel-wreath as he spoke. In- 
stantly all the artists in the room were on their 
feet. The friends of Comerre angrily struggled 
to prevent what they counted an insult. But 
the others lifted the young American on their 
shoulders, bore him through the opposing crowd, 
and he hung the laurel-wreath upon Bastien- 
Lepage's picture, " Golden Youth." Amid uproar 
and conflict the artists testified their admiration 
for their peasant brother. 

There was the same feeling at the Beaux Arts. 
Every day heaps of flowers and laurel-wreaths 
were laid before the "Annunciation to the Shep- 
herds." They were removed by the guardians of 
the galleries, only to be renewed the next day. So, 
although Comerre was given the great prize, and 
Bastien-Lepage obtained only the second, his 
failure was really a success. 

Now, we see him fairly launched on his career. 
A third medal had been awarded him for his 
picture of "Spring," exhibited at the same time 
with the portrait of his grandfather. The second 
Prix de Rome was given him, and at the Salon 
of 1875 he obtained a second-class medal. The 
artists and the critics recognized his individuality 
and strength. 

Another picture exhibited this year was warmly 
praised; it was called "The First Communion." He 
was glad to sell this picture for fifteen hundred 
francs, less than three hundred dollars, for he 
needed money; but unhappily for him the pur- 
chaser, after keeping the painting for three weeks, 
returned it to him. I fancy that purchaser felt a 
deeper disappointment than the artist in after 
years, when princes and ministers sought the 
work of the peasant painter. 

But this was nearly the last of the artist's 
troubles. Commissions began to come to him. 




He painted portraits of M. Hayems, a wealthy 
banker, and of M. Wallon, tlie Minister of Fine 
Arts. These dignitaries brouglit otliers. Among his 
sitters were M. Theuriet, Mademoiselle Sarah 
Bernhardt, and Albert Wolff, the well-known critic 
of the Parisian journal, Figaro, and finally he was 
commissioned to go to England and paint the por- 
trait of the Prince of Wales. 

I doubt if the English understood him. Once 

reputation of " a comet in a fog." Well, you 
know that London fog has become a proverb. 

This portrait-painting is not the really character- 
istic phase of Bastien-Lepage's art, although the 
French critic Albert Wolff thinks his best work 
was in portraiture. The peasant-life which ap- 
pealed to him so strongly when he was a peasant 
boy was what he liked most to paint. 

Once he said : 

IIIL 1 ! UU \l 

on the opening day of a Royal Academy Exhibi- 
tion, the peasant painter appeared in a tall hat, 
which was proper, and a short flannel coat, which 
was not, and the people who saw him suffered a 
dreadful shock, while the unconscious Bastien- 
Lepage thought of nothing but the pictures. 
Somebody said of him that he left in London the 

" I wish to open and to shut the book of life in 
the fields, beginning with the birth of the baby 
and ending with the death of the grandfather. 
Within this extensive cycle I desire to delineate all 
those joys that are known as infancy, courtship, 
marriage, baptism, the sorrow that is called an 
eternal separation, and such varied subjects as the 




school, the watching in the sick-room, the tavern, 
the forge, and the farm. The interests of rural 
life are beyond the limits traced by mere men of 
talent. It requires genius to depict them ; and 
when they have been depicted, they should prove 
to be a surprise and a revelation." 

His first large picture of this class was called 
Lcs Foins, "The Harvest," — two hay-makers 
resting at noon, the man asleep, wearied with his 
work, the woman staring into vacancy with an 
expression of dull protest against her toilsome life. 

" It is a perfect poem of the hard and hopeless 
lot of the poor," wrote a critic. You can see how 
the peasant painter entered into the dull life of the 
peasants among whom he had lived, for you share 
his sympathy while you admire his picture. 

He painted Father Jacques, " The Woodman," 
bending under his load and gazing straight at you 
with wistful earnestness. In one picture, " Tired," 
a weary peasant-girl leans on her rake, and in 
another a tattered, forlorn beggar turns sadly away 
from a cottage-door. "The Potato Harvest" 
showed a scene in which the artist himself must 
often have taken part, and "The Forge" was 
perhaps a picture of the forge at Damvillers. 

It was at Damvillers also that he found the sub- 
ject of his " First Communion." This is a picture 
of his little cousin, truthfully painted, her face 
darkened by the sun, contrasting strongly with 
the clear white of her dress, veil, and garland ; 
her hands, strangers to gloves, working with naive 
awkwardness in a pair much too large, perhaps lent 
her by her mother or an older sister. The first 
communion is a serious and beautiful ceremony in 
rural France. Then the village girls who are 
prepared to take the sacrament for the first time 
are robed in spotless white by their mothers as if 
for a wedding, and walk to the church in a proces- 
sion, bearing candles. Several artists have painted 
this subject, but none with such perfect simplicity 
as this peasant of Damvillers has shown in this 
picture of his cousin standing, as she might have 
stood before the gathered family, when ready to 
join the procession of communicants. 

In 1 88 1 Bastien-Lepage exhibited a painting 
called "Poor Fauvette." It showed a quaint little 
figure wrapped in a ragged shawl, shivering in the 
wintry landscape and looking out at you with big 
appealing eyes. Yes, Bastien-Lepage was true to 
the peasant-life which he had lived, and you can 
see that he sympathized with its toil and grinding 
poverty. The poor were his brethren ; and, when 
he was in London, the little shoeblacks and flower- 
girls earning their scanty living in the streets so 
appealed to him that he put them just as they 
were upon his canvas. 

It was a heroine of poor life that he painted in 

his famous picture, " Joan of Arc," which is owned 
in this country, and has been exhibited in Boston 
and New York, as many of you know. Bastien- 
Lepage was brought up in the country of Joan of 
Arc, and in his youth he must have heard how the 
peasant-girl, born at Domremy in 1412, fancied she 
saw visions and heard voices calling her to fight 
for the Dauphin of France ; how she put herself at 
the head of the French troops and drove the 
English from the city of Orleans ; how she saw the 
Dauphin, Charles, crowned King of France at 
Rheims, and how at last she fell into the hands of 
the English, and when only nineteen years old was 
burned at the stake in Rouen as a sorceress, accord- 
ing to the barbarous belief of those times. 

No wonder that the thrilling story of the 
peasant heroine sank deep into the heart of the 
peasant painter. And so, at last, he pictured 
her intent upon the voices of her imagined visions, 
her dilated eyes fixed and staring from her hectic, 
wasted face, like the eyes of one who walks in her 
sleep, her hand extended as if for guidance or for 
the sword which the apparition of St. Michael 
bears toward her from behind. 

It was not in glittering armor, nor in ideal attire 
that he painted the " Maid of Orleans," but in 
coarse, ragged peasant's dress. It was the picture of 
a poor girl, her nerves strained in a trance of devout 
awe, receiving, as she thought, a divine com- 

Now, there are many faults in this picture, 
but 1 think we can afford to pass them by. For 
we can see that the artist was true to himself, 
and that he was in earnest ; and real sincerity and 
earnestness are worth as much in art as in the prac- 
tical affairs of every-day life. 

In 1878 he received a third-class medal, and the 
next year he was made a chevalier of the Legion 
of Honor. He received the compliment of being 
imitated — indeed, he may be said to have founded 
a school ; and some of his followers have already 
gained a reputation. It is pleasant to know that 
in his prosperity he preserved his tender regard 
for the good people at Damvillers. He brought 
the father and mother to Paris, and in their peas- 
ant's dress they went to the Saloti and saw their 
own portraits. They were feasted and taken sight- 
seeing until they were very glad to go back to quiet 

But Bastien-Lepage's brief time of happiness was 
nearly ended. He fell sick, and after a little it was 
clear that his work was done. Two years of suffer- 
ing — and in the early winter, he died. His last 
wish was to live long enough to paint a peasant 
funeral procession in the spring-time. 

His pictures were painted out-of-doors, and you 
can see that Bastien-Lepage was true to the out- 



of-door peasant-life which he had hved. He sym- 
pathized with its toil and poverty, and he did not 
paint these peasants in his studio, as he would 
have done had he simply desired to make pretty 

Painting in the carefully arranged light of his 
studio, he would have found it easier to make pict- 
ures which many people would prefer. In nature 
confusing lights come from all sides, the full sun- 
light is trying, the colors of grass and foliage are 
vivid and even harsh, and it is difficult to indicate 
exactly the relative distances of different objects 
and their values in the picture. Bastien-Lcpage, 
after beginning a picture at a certain hour, would 
paint upon it only at that hour in order that the 
light and its effects upon the surroundings might 
be the same from day to day. 

He was called a realist, one who painted things 
simply as they were ; but the " Joan of Arc " and 
others of his works showed that he lacked neither 

imagination nor sympathetic insight. Certainly 
he did more than the recording of facts. 

Critics have disparaged his coloring, his use of 
"crude greens" and "dirty grays;" they have 
objected that his pictures convey no feeling of 
space, or distance, or proportion ; that his ideas 
of composition, of designing his pictures, were 
faulty ; that he painted portions of his pictures 
very well at the cost of more important parts, and 
that his work was coarse and brutal. 

There is some ground for these objections, for 
Bastien-Lepage died before he had accomplished 
all that he wished. But he was a faithful lover 
of nature. He found poetry in the events of every- 
day life, and, as has been said, one of his peasants 
typified the peasantry of France. Dying when 
but a young man, he is not to be ranked with 
the greater masters of the century, but he left 
an influence and pictures which will preserve the 
memory of his earnestness and loyalty to his art. 


By Louisa M. Alcott. 

'* They are itez'er ttlojte thai tire aecomjiajiied 

" I 'VE finished my book, and now what can I do 
till this tiresome rain is over?" exclaimed Carrie, 
as she lay back on the couch with a yawn of weari- 

"Take another and a better book; the house 
is full of them, and this is a rare chance for a feast 
on the best," answered Alice, looking over the pile 
of volumes in her lap, as she sat on the floor before 
one of the tall book-cases that lined the room. 

" Not being a book-worm like you, I can't read 
forever : and you need n't sniff at my book, for 
it 's perfectly thrilling ! " cried Carrie, regretfully 
turning the crumpled leaves of a cheap copy of a 
sentimental and impossible novel. 

" We should read to improve our minds, and 
that rubbish is only a waste of time," began Alice, 
in a warning tone, as she looked up froin " Ro- 
mola," over which she had been poring with the 
delight one feels in meeting an old friend. 

" I don't uiis/i to improve my mind, thank you: 
I read for amusement in vacation time and don't 
want to see any moral works till next October. 1 
got enough of them in school. This is n't ' rubbish ' ! 
It 's full of fine descriptions of scenery — " 

" Which you skip by the page ; I 've seen you 
do it," said Eva. the third young girl in the library, 
as she shut up the stout book on her knee and 
began to knit, as if this sudden outburst of chat 
disturbed her enjoyment of " The Dove in the 
Eagle's Nest." 

" I do at first, being carried away by my interest 
in the people, but 1 almost always go back and 
read them afterward," protested Carrie. '"You 
knowjv;/ like to hear about nice clothes, and this 
heroine's were simply gorgeous ; white velvet and 
a rope of pearls is one costume ; gray velvet and a 
silver girdle another ; and Idalia was all a ' shower 

iviih noble thpii^hts." — Sir Philip Sidney. 
of perfumed laces,' and scarlet and gold satin 
mask dresses, or primrose silk with violets, so 
lovely ! 1 do revel in 'em ! " 

Both girls laughed as Carrie reeled off this list 
of elegances with the relish of a French modiste. 

" Well, 1 'm poor and can't have as many pretty 
things as 1 want, so it is delightful to read about 
women who wear white quilted satin dressing- 
gowns and olive velvet trains with Mechlin lace 
sweepers to them. Diamonds as large as nuts, 
and rivers of opals and sapphires and rubies and 
pearls, are great fun to read of, if you never even 
get a look at real ones. We never see such lan- 
guid swells in America, nor such ladies, and the 
authorscolds them all, and that 's moral, I 'msure." 

Carrie paused, out of breath ; but Alice shook 
her head again, and said in her serious way : 

"That 's the harm of it all. False and foolish 
things are made interesting, and we read for that, 
not for any lesson there may be hidden under the 
velvet and jewels and fine words of your splendid 
men and women. Now /his book is a wonderful 
picture of Florence in old times, and the famous 
people who really lived are painted in it, and it 
has a true and clean moral that we all can see, 
and one feels wiser and better for reading it. I do 
wish you 'd leave those trashy things and try 
something really good." 

" 1 hate George Eliot, — so awfully wise and 
preachy and dismal ! I really could n't wade 
through ' Daniel Deronda,' though ' The Mill on 
the Floss' wasn't bad," answered Carrie, with 
another yawn, as she recalled the Jew Mordecai's 
long speeches, and Daniel's meditations. 

" I know you 'd like this," said Eva, patting her 
book with an air of calm content ; for she was a 
modest, common-sense little body, full of innocent 

iancies and the mildest sort of romance. " I love 
dear Miss Yonge and her books, with their nice, 
large families, and their trials, and their pious 
ways, and pleasant homes full of brothers and 
sisters, and good fathers and mothers. I 'm never 
tired of them, and have read ' Daisy Chain ' nine 
times at least." 

" I used to like them, and still think them good 
for young girls, with our own 'Oueechy' and 
' Wide, Wide World,' and books of that kind. 
Now I 'm eighteen, I prefer stronger novels, and 
books by great men and women, because these are 
always talked about by cultivated people, and when 
1 go into society ne.xt winter 1 wish to be able to 
listen intelligently, and to know what to admire." 

"That 's all very well for you, Alice ; you were 
always poking over books, and I dare say you will 
write them some day, or be a blue-stocking. But 
1 have another year to study and fuss over my 
education, and I 'm going to enjoy myself all I can, 
and leave the wise books till I come out." " 

" But, Carrie, there won't be any time to read 
them ; you '11 be so busy with parties, and beaux, 
and traveling, and such things. I would take 
Alice's advice and read up a little now; it 's so nice 
to know useful things, and be able to find help 
and comfort in good books when trouble comes, as 
Ellen Montgomery and Fleda did, and Ethel, and 
the other girls in Miss Yonge's stories," said Eva 
earnestly, remembering how much the efforts of 
those natural little heroines had helped her in her 
own struggles for self-control and the cheerful 
bearing of the burdens which come to all. 

" I don't want to be a priggish Ellen, or a moral 
Fleda, and I do detest bothering about self-im- 
provement all the time. I know I ought, but I 'd 
rather wait another year or two, and enjoy my 
vanities in peace just a little longer." And Carrie 
tucked her novel under the sofa pillow, as if a 
trifle ashamed of its society, with Eva's innocent 
eyes upon her own, and Alice sadly regarding her 
over the rampart of wise books, which kept grow- 
ing higher as the eager girl found more and more 
treasures in this richly stored library. 

A little silence followed, broken only by the pat- 
ter of the rain without, the crackle of the wood fire 
within, and the scratch of a bus)' pen from a cur- 
tained recess at the end of a long room. In the 
sudden hush the girls heard it and remembered 
that they were not alone. 

"She must have heard every word we said!" 
and Carrie sat up with a dismayed face as she 
spoke in a whisper. 

Eva laughed, but Alice shrugged her shoulders, 
andsaid tranquilly, " 1 don't mind. She would n't 
expect much wisdom from school-girls." 

This was cold comfort to Carrie, who was pain- 


fully conscious of having been a particularly silly 
school-girl just then. So she gave a groan and lay 
down again, wishing she had not expressed her 
views quite so freely. 

The three girls were the guests of a delightful 
old lady who had known their mothers and was 
fond of renewing her acquaintance with them 
through their daughters. She loved young people, 
and every summer invited parties of them to enjoy 
the delights of her beautiful country-house, where 
she lived alone now, being the childless widow of a 
somewhat celebrated man. She made it very 
pleasant for her guests, leaving them free to em- 
ploy a part of the day as they liked, providing the 
best of company at dinner, gay revels in the even- 
ing, and a large houseful of curious and interest- 
ing things to examine at their leisure. 

The rain had spoiled a pleasant plan, and business 
letters had made it necessary for Mrs. Warburton to 
leave the three to their own devices after luncheon. 
They had read quietly for several hours, and their 
hostess was just finishing her last letter, when frag- 
ments of the conversation reached her ear. She lis- 
tened with amusement, unconscious that they had 
forgotten her presence, finding the different views 
\ery characteristic, and easily explained by the dif- 
erence of the homes out of which the three friends 

Alice was the only daughter of a scholarly man 
and a brilliant woman ; therefore her love of books 
and desire to cultivate her mind was very natural, 
but the danger in her case would be in the neglect of 
other things equally important, too varied reading, 
and a superficial knowledge of many authors rather 
than a true appreciation of a few of the best and 
greatest. Eva was one of many children in a happy 
home, with a busy father, a pious mother, and 
many domestic cares as well as joys already fall- 
ing to the dutiful girl's lot. Her instincts were sweet 
and unspoiled, and she only needed to be shown 
where to find new and better helpers for the real 
trials of life, when the childish heroines she loved 
could no longer serve her in the years to come. 

Carrie was one of the ambitious yet common- 
place girls who wish to shine, w'ithout knowing the 
difference between the glitter of a candle which 
attracts moths, and the serene light of a star, or 
the cheery glow of a fire around which all love to 
gather. Her mother's aims were not high ; and 
the two pretty daughters knew that she desired 
good matches for them, educated them for that 
end, and expected them to do their parts when the 
time came. The elder sister was now at a water- 
ing-place with her mother, and Carrie hoped that 
a letter would soon come telling her that Mary 
was settled. During her stay with Mrs. Warbur- 
ton she had learned a great deal, and was uncon- 




sciously contrasting the life there with the frivolous 
one at home, made up of public show and private 
sacrifice of comfort, dignity, and peace. Here were 
people who dressed simply, enjoyed conversation, 
kept up their accomplishments even when old, and 
were so busy, lovable, and charming, that poor 
Carrie often felt vulgar, ignorant, and mortified 
among them, in spite of their fine breeding and 
kindliness. The society Mrs. Warburton drew 
about her was the best ; and old and young, rich 
and poor, wise and simple, all seeined genuine, 
glad to give or receive, enjoy and rest, and then 
go out to their work refreshed by the influences of 
the place and the sweet old lady who made it what 
it was. The girls would soon begin life for them- 
selves, and it was well that they had this little 
glimpse of really good society before they left the 
shelter of home to choose friends, pleasures, and 
pursuits for themselves, as all young women do 
when once launched. 

The sudden silence and then the whispers sug- 
gested to the listener that she had perhaps heard 
something not meant for her ear, so she presently 
emerged with her letters, and said, as she came 
smiling toward the group about the fire : 

"' How are you getting through this long, dull 
afternoon, my dears ? Ouiet as mice till just now. 
What woke you up ? A battle of the books ? Alice 
looks as if she had laid in plenty of ammunition, 
and you were preparing to besiege her." 

The girls laughed, and all rose, for Mrs. War- 
burton was a stately old lady, and people involun- 
tarily treated her with great respect, even in this 
mannerless age. 

" We were only talking about books," began 
Carrie, deeply grateful that her novel was safely 
out of sight. 

" And we could n't agree," added Eva, running 
to ring the bell for the man to take the letters, for 
she was used to these little offices at home, and 
loved to wait on her hostess. 

"Thanks, my love. Now let us talk a little, if 
you are tired of reading and if you like to let me 
share the discussion. Comparing tastes in litera- 
ture is always a pleasure, and I used to enjoy talk- 
ing over books with my girl friends more than any- 
thing else." 

As she spoke, Mrs. Warburton sat down in the 
chair which Alice rolled up, drew Eva to the 
cushion at her feet, and nodded to the others as 
they settled again, with interested faces, one at the 
table where the pile of chosen volumes now lay, 
the other erect upon the couch where she had been 
practicing the poses "full of languid grace," so 
much affected by her favorite heroines. 

"Carrie was laughing at me for liking wise 
books and wishing to improve my mind. Is it 

foolish and a waste of time ?" asked Alice, eager to 
convince her friend and secure so powerful an ally. 

" No, my dear, it is a very sensible desire, and I 
wish more girls had it. Only don't be greedy, and 
read too much ; cramming and smattering are as 
bad as promiscuous novel-reading, or no reading 
at all. Choose carefully, read intelligently, and 
digest thoroughly each book, and then you make 
it your own," answered Mrs. Warburton, quite in 
her element now, for she loved to advise, as all old 
people do. 

" But how can we know what to read, if we may 
not follow our tastes? "said Carrie, trying to be in- 
terested and "intelligent" in spite of her fear that 
a " school-marmy " lecture was in store for her. 

" Ask advice, and so cultivate a true and refined 
taste. I always judge people's characters a great 
deal by the books they like, as well as by the com- 
pany they keep ; so one should be careful, for this 
is a very good test. Another test is, be sure that 
whatever will not bear reading aloud is not fit to 
read to one's self. Many young girls ignorantly 
or curiously take up books quite worthless, and 
really harmful, because under the fine writing and 
brilliant color lurk immorality or the false senti- 
ment which gives wrong ideas of life and things 
which should be sacred. They think, perhaps, 
that no one knows this taste of theirs, but they are 
mistaken, for it shows itself in many ways, and be- 
trays them. Attitudes, looks, careless words, and 
a morbid or foolishly romantic view of certain 
things, show plainly that the maidenly instincts 
are blunted, and harm done that perhaps can 
never be repaired." 

Mrs. Warburton kept her eyes fixed upon the 
tall andirons, as if gravely reproving them, which 
was a great relief to Carrie, whose cheeks glowed 
as she stirred uneasily, and took up a screen as 
if to guard them from the fire. But conscience 
pricked her sharply, and memory, like a traitor, 
recalled many a passage or scene in her favorite 
books which, though she enjoyed them in private, 
she could not have read aloud even to that old 
lady. Nothing very bad, but false and foolish, 
poor food for a lively fancy and young mind to 
feed on, as the weariness or excitement which 
always followed plainly proved ; since one should 
feel refreshed, not cloyed, with an intellectual feast. 

Alice, with both elbows on the table, listened 
with wide-awake eyes, and Eva watched the rain- 
drops trickle down the pane with an intent expres- 
sion, as if asking herself if she had ever done this 
naughty thing. 

"Then there is another fault," continued Mrs. 
Warburton, well knowing that her first shot had 
hit its inark, and anxious to be just. "Some 
book-loving lassies have a mania for trying to read 




everything, and dip into works far beyond their 
powers, or try too many different kinds of self- 
improvement at once. So they get a muddle of 
useless things into their heads, instead of well- 
assorted ideas and real knowledge. They must 
learn to wait and select, for each age has its proper 
class of books, and what is Greek to us at eighteen 
may be just what we need at thirty. One can get 
mental dyspepsia on meat and wine, as well as on 
ice-cream and frosted cake, you know." 

Alice smiled, and pushed away four of the eight 
books she had selected, as if afraid she Jiad been 
greedy, and now felt that it was best to wait a little. 

Eva looked up with some anxiety in her frank 
eyes, as she said, "Now it is my turn. Must I 
give up my dear homely books, and take to Ruskin, 
Kant, or Plato?" 

Mrs. Warburton laughed, as she stroked the 
pretty brown head at her knee. 

" Not yet, my love, perhaps never ; for those are 
not the masters you need, I fancy. Since you like 
stories about every-day people, try some of the fine 
biographies of real men and women about whom 
you should know something. You will find their 
lives full of stirring, helpful, and lonely experi- 
ences, and in reading of these you will get courage 
and hope and faith to bear your own trials as they 
come. True stories suit you, and are the best, 
for there we get real tragedy and comedy, and the 
lessons all must learn." 

" Thank you ! I will begin at once, if you will 
kindly give me a list of such as would be good for 
me," cried Eva, with the sweet docility of one 
eager to be all that is lovable and wise in woman. 

" Give us each a list, and we will try to improve 
in the best way. You know what we need, and love 
to help foolish girls, or you would n't be so kind 
and patient with us," said Alice, going to sit beside 
Carrie, hoping for much discussion of this, to her, 
very interesting subject. 

"I will, with pleasure; but I read few modern 
novels, so I may not be a good judge there. Most 
of them seem very poor stuff, and I can not waste 
time even to skim them as some people do. I still 
like the old fashioned ones I read as a girl, though 
you would laugh at thein. Did any of you ever 
read ' Thaddeus of Warsaw ? ' I re-read it recently, 
and thought it very funny; so were 'Evelina,' and 
' Cecilia.' " 

"I wanted to try Smollett and Fielding, after 
reading some fine essays about them, but Papa 
told me I must wait," said Alice. 

" Ah, my dears, in my day, Thaddeus was our 
hero, and we thought the scene where he and Miss 
Beaufort are in the Park a most thrilhng one. 
Two fops ask Thaddeus where he got his boots, 
and he replies, with withering dignity, ' Where I 

got my sword, gentlemen.' I treasured the picture 
of that episode for a long time. Thaddeus wears 
a hat as full of black plumes as a hearse, Hessian 
boots with tassels, and leans over Mary, who lan- 
guishes on the seat in a short-waisted gown, limp 
scarf, poke bonnet, and large bag — the height of 
elegance then, but very funny now. Then too, there 
is William Wallace in ' Scottish Chiefs.' Bless me ! 
We cried over him as much as you do over your 
'Heir of Clifton,' or whatever the boy's name is. 
You would n't get through it, I fancy ; and as for 
poor, dear, prosy Richardson, his letter-writing he- 
roines would bore you sadly. Just imagine a lover 
saying to a friend, ' I begged my angel to stay and 
sip one dish of tea. She sipped one dish and flew.' " 

" Now, I 'm sure that 's sillier than anything the 
Duchess ever wrote with her five o'clock teas and 
flirtations over plum-cake on lawns," cried Carrie, 
as they all laughed at the immortal Lovelace. 

" I never read Richardson, but he could n't be 
duller than Henry James, with his everlasting 
stories, full of people who talk a great deal and 
amount to nothing. I like the older novels best, 
and enjoy some of Scott's and Miss Edgeworth's 
better than Howells's or any of the modern realistic 
writers, with their elevators, and paint-pots, and 
every-day people," said Alice. 

" I 'm glad to hear you say so, for I have an 
old-fashioned fancy that I 'd rather read about 
people as they were, for that is history, or as they 
might and should be, for that helps us in our own 
efforts ; not as they are, for that we know, and are 
all sufficiently commonplace ourselves to be the 
better for a nobler and wider view of life and men 
than any we are apt to get, so busy are we earning 
daily bread, or running after fortune, honor, or 
some other bubble. But I must n't lecture, or I 
shall bore you, and forget that I am your hostess, 
whose duty it is to amuse." 

As Mrs. Warburton paused, Carrie, anxious to 
change the subject, said, with her eyes on a curious 
jewel which the old lady wore, "I also love true 
stories, and you promised to tell us about that 
lovely pin some day. This is just the time for 
it — please do." 

" With pleasure," replied Mrs. Warburton, "for 
the little romance is quite apropos of our present 
chat. It is a very simple tale, and rather sad, but 
it had a great influence on my life, and this brooch 
is very dear to me." 

As Mrs. Warburton sat silent a moment, the 
girls all looked with interest at the quaint pin 
which clasped the soft folds of muslin over the 
gray silk dress which was as becoming to the still 
handsome woman as her crown of white hair 
and the winter roses in her cheeks. The ornament 
was in the shape of a pansy ; its purple leaves 




were of amethyst, the yellow of topaz, and in the 
middle lay a diamond drop of dew. Several letters 
were delicately cut on its golden stem, and a guard- 
pin showed how much its wearer \alued it. 

" My sister Lucretia was a great deal older than 
I, for the three boys came between," began Mrs. 
Warburton, still gazing at the fire, as if from its 
ashes the past rose up bright and warm again. 
" She was a very lovely and superior girl, and 1 
looked up to her with wonder as well as admiration. 
Others did the same, and at eighteen she was en- 
gaged to a charming man, who would have made 
his mark had he lived. She was too young to 
marry then, and Frank Lyman had a fine opening 
to practise his profession at the South. So they 
parted for two years, and it was then that he gave 
her the brooch, saying to her, as she whispered 
how lonely she should be without him, 'This pansy 
is a happy, faithful thought of me. Wear it, dear- 
est girl, and don't pine while we are separated. 
Read and study, write much to me, and remember, 
"They are never alone that are accompanied with 
noble thoughts.'"" 

"Was n't that sweet?" cried Eva, pleased with 
the beginning of the tale. 

" So romantic ! " added Carrie, recalling the 
"amber amulet" one of her pet heroes wore for 
years and died kissing, after he had killed some 
fifty Arabs in the desert. 

'■'■Did she read and study?" asked Alice, with 
a soft color in her cheek, and eager eyes, for a 
budding romance was folded away in the depths of 
her maidenly heart, and she liked a love story. 

" I will tell you what she did, for it was rather re- 
markable at that day, when girls had little school- 
ing, and picked up accomplishments as they could. 
The first winter she read and studied at home, and 
wrote much to Mr. Lyman. I have their letters 
now, and very fine ones they are, though they 
would seem old-fashioned to you young things. 
Curious love-letters, — full of advice, the discussion 
of books, report of progress, glad praise, modest 
gratitude, happy plans, and a faithful affection that 
never wavered. 

" The second spring, Lucretia, anxious to waste 
no time, and ambitious to surprise Mr. Lyman, de- 
cided to go and study with old Dr. Gardener at Port- 
land. He fitted young men for college, was a friend 
of our father's, and had a daughter who was a very 
wise and accomplished woman. That was a very 
happy summer, and Lucretia got on so well that 
she begged to stay all winter. It was a rare chance, 
for there were no colleges for girls then, and very 
few advantages to be had, and the dear creature 
burned to improve every faculty, that she might 
be more worthy of her lover. She fitted herself 
for college with the youths there, and did wonders, 

for love sharpened her wits, and the thought of 
that happy meeting spurred her on to untiring 
exertion. Mr. Lyman was expected in May, and the 
wedding was to be in June. But, alas for the poor 
girl ! the yellow-fever came, and he was one of the 
first victnns. They never met again, and nothing 
was left her of all that happy time but his letters, 
his library, and the pansy." 

Mrs. Warburton paused to wipe a few quiet tears 
from her eyes, while the girls sat in sympathetic 

" We thought it would kill her, that sudden 
change from love, hope, and happiness to sorrow, 
death, and solitude. But hearts don't break, my 
dears, if they know where to go for strength. Lu- 
cretia did, and after the first shock was over, found 
comfort in her books, saying, with a brave, bright 
look, and the sweetest resignation, ' 1 must go on 
trying to be more worthy of him, for we shall meet 
again in God's good time, and he shall see that I 
do not forget.' 

" That was better than tears and lamentation, 
and the long years that followed were beautiful and 
busy ones, full of dutiful care for us at home after 
of our mother died, of interest in all the good works 
of her time, and of a steady, cjuiet eflbrt to improve 
every faculty of her fine mind, till she was felt to 
be one of the noblest women in our city. Her in- 
fluence was widespread ; all the intelligent people 
sought her ; and when she traveled, she was wel- 
come everywhere ; for cultivated persons have a 
free-masonry of their own, and are recognized at 

"Did she ever marry?" asked Carrie, feeling 
that no life could be quite successful without that 
great event. 

"Never. She felt herself a widow, and wore 
black to the day of her death. Many men asked 
her hand, but she refused them all, and was the 
sweetest 'old maid' ever seen, — cheerful and se- 
rene to the very last, for she was ill a long time, 
and found her solace and stay still in the beloved 
books. Even when she could no longer read 
them, her memory supplied her with the mental 
food that kept her soul strong while her body 
failed. It was wonderful to hear her repeating 
fine lines, heroic sayings, and comforting psalms 
through the weary nights when no sleep would 
come, making friends and helpers of the poets, 
philosophers, and saints whom she knc^v and loved 
so well. It made death beautiful, and taught me 
how victorious an immortal soul can be over the 
ills that vex our mortal flesh. 

" She died at da.wn on Easter Sundaj-, after a 
quiet night, when she had given me her little 
legacy of letters, books, and the one jewel she had 
always worn, repeating her lover's words to com- 



fort me. I had read the Commendatory Prayer, 
and as I finished, she whispered, with a look of 
perfect peace : 

" ' Shut the book, dear, I need study no more; 
I have hoped and believed, now I shall know'; 
and so she went happilj' away to meet her lover 
after patient waiting." 

The sigh of the wind was the only sound that 
broke the silence till the quiet voice went on again, 
as if it loved to tell the story ; for the thought of 
soon seeing the beloved sister took the sadness 
from the memory of the past. 

happiness of my life, and curiously enough I owed 
it to a book." 

IVIrs. Warburton smiled as she took up a shabby 
little volume from the table where Alice had laid 
it, and, quick to divine another romance, Eva said, 
like a story-loving child : 

" Do tell about it ! The other was so sad." 
"This begins merrily, and has a wedding in it, 
as young girls think all stories should. Well, when 
I was about thirty-five, I was invited to join a party 
of friends on a trip to Canada, that being the 
favorite jaunt in my young days. I 'd been study- 


"I also found my solace in books, for I was very 
lonely when she was gone, my father being dead, 
the brothers married, and home desolate. I took 
to study and reading as a congenial employment, 
feeling no inclination to marry, and for many 
years w'as quite contented among my books. But 
in trying to follow in dear Lucretia's footsteps, I 
unconsciously fitted myself for the great honor and 

Vol. XV. — 2. 

ing hard for some years, and needed rest, so I was 
glad to go. As a good book for an excursion, I 
took this ' Wordsworth ' in my bag. It is full of fine 
passages, you know, and I loved it, for it was one 
of the books given to Lucretia by her lover. We 
had a charming time, and were on our way to 
Quebec when my little adventure happened. I was 
in raptures over the grand St. Lawrence as we 




steamed slowly from Montreal that lovely summer 
day. I could not read, but sat on the upper deck, 
feasting my eyes and dreaming dreams as even 
staid maiden ladies will when out on a holiday. 
Suddenly I caught the sound of voices in earnest 
discussion on the lower deck, and, glancing down, 
saw several gentlemen leaning against the rail as 
they talked over certain events of great public 
interest at that moment. I knew that a party of 
distinguished persons were on board, as my friend's 
husband, Dr. Tracy, knew some of them, and had 
pointed out Mr. Warburton as one of the rising 
scientific men of the day. I remembered that my 
sister had met him years before, and much ad- 
mired him both for his own gifts and because he 
had knoun Mr. Lyman. As other people were 
listening, I felt privileged to do the same, for the 
conversation was an elocjuent one, and well worth 
hearing. So interested did I become that I for- 
got the great rafts floating by, the picturesque 
shores, the splendid river, and leaned nearer and 
nearer that no word might be lost, till my book 
slid out of my lap and fell straight down upon the 
head of one of the gentlemen, giving him a smart 
blow, and knocking his hat overboard." 

"Oh, what did you do?" cried the girls, much 
amused at this unromantic catastrophe. 

Mrs. Warburton clasped her hands dramatically, 
as her eyes twinkled and a pretty color came into 
her cheeks at the memory of that exciting mo- 

" My dears, I could have dropped with mortifi- 
cation ! What could I do but dodge and peep as I 
waited to see theendof this most untoward accident? 
Fortunately I was alone on that side of the deck, 
so none of the ladies saw my mishap, and, slipping 
along the seat to a distant corner, I hid my face 
behind a convenient newspaper as I watched the 
little flurry of fishing up the hat by a man in a 
boat near by, and the merriment of ths gentlemen 
over this assault of William Wordsworth upon 
Samuel Warburton. The poor book passed from 
hand to hand, and many jokes were made upon 
the 'fair Helen' whose name was written on the 
paper cover which protected it. 

" ' I knew a Miss Harper once — a lovely woman, 
but her name was not Helen, and she is dead, — 
God bless her ! ' I heard Mr. Warburton say, as he 
flapped his straw hat to dry it, and rubbed his 
head, which, fortunately was well covered with 
thick gray hair at that time. 

" I longed to go down and tell him who 1 was, 
but I had not the courage to face all those men. 
It really was most embarrassing ; so I waited for a 
more private moment to claim my book, as I knew 
we should not land till night, so there was no dan- 
ger of losing it. 

" ' This is a rather uncommon book for a woman 
to be reading. Some literary lady doubtless. Bet- 
ter look her up, Warburton, when she comes down 
to luncheon,' said a jovial old gentleman. 

" ' I shall know her by her intelligent face and 
conversation, if this book belongs to a lady. It 
will be an honor and a pleasure to meet a woman 
who enjoys Wordsworth, for in my opinion he is 
one of our truest poets,' answered Mr. Warburton, 
putting the book in his pocket, with a look and a 
tone that were most respectful, and comforting to 
me just then. 

"I hoped he v/ould examine the volume, for Lu- 
cretia's and Mr. Lyman's names were on t'ne fly- 
leaf, and that would be a delightful introduction 
for me. So I said nothing and bided my time, feel- 
ing rather foolish when we all filed in to luncheon, 
and I saw the other party glancing at the ladies at 
the table. Mr. Warburton's eye paused a moment 
as it passed from Mrs. Tracy to me, and I fear I 
blushed like a girl, my dears," said the narrator, 
as she went on with the most romantic episode of 
her quiet life. 

" I retired to my state-room after lunch to com- 
pose myself, and when I emerged, in the cool of 
the afternoon, my first glance showed me that the 
hour had come, for there on deck was Mr. War- 
burton, talking to Mrs. Tracy, with my book in 
his hand. I hesitated a moment, for in spite of 
my age I was rather shy, and really it was not an 
easy thing to apologize to a strange gentleman 
for dropping books on his head and spoiling his 
hat. Men think so much of their hats, you know. 
I was spared embarrassment, however, for he saw 
me and came to me at once, saying, in the most 
cordial manner, as he showed the names on the fly- 
leaf of my ' Wordsworth,' ' I am sure we need no 
other introduction than the names of these two dear 
friends of ours. I am very glad to find that Miss 
Helen Harper is the little girl I saw once or twice 
at her father's house some years ago, and to meet 
her so pleasantly again.' 

"That made everything easy and delightful, 
and when I had apologized and been laughingly 
assured that he considered it rather an honor than 
otherwise to be assaulted by so great a poet, we 
fell to talking of old times, and soon forgot that 
we were strangers. He was twenty years older 
than I, but a handsome man, and a most interesting 
and excellent one, as we all know. He had lost a 
young wife long before, and had lived for science 
ever since, but it had not made him dry, or cold, 
or selfish. He was very young at heart, for all his 
wisdom, and he enjoyed that holiday like a boy 
out of school. So did I, and never dreamed that 
anything would come of it, but a pleasant friend- 
ship founded on our love for those now dead and 



gone. Dear me ! how strangely things turn out in 
this world of ours, and how the dropping of that 
book changed my life ! Well, that was our intro- 
duction, and that first long conversation was fol- 
lowed by many more, equally charming, during 
the three weeks in which our parties were often 
together, as both were taking the same trip, and 
Dr. Tracy was glad to meet his old friend. 

" I need not tell you how delightful such society 
was to me, nor how surprised 1 was when, on the 
last day before we parted, Mr. Warburton, who 
had answered many questions of mine during 
those long chats of ours, asked me a very serious 
one, and I found that 1 could answer it as he wished. 
It was a great honor as well as happiness, and 1 
fear 1 was not worthy of it, but I tried to be, and 
felt a tender satisfaction in thinking that I owed 
it to dear Lucretia, in part at least ; for my effort 
to imitate her made me fitter to become a wise 
man's wife, and twenty years of very sweet com- 
panionship was my reward." 

As she spoke, Mrs. Warburton bowed her head 
before the portrait of a courtly old man which hung 
above the mantelpiece. 

It was a pretty, old-fashioned expression of 
wifely pride and womanly tenderness in the fine 
old lady, who forgot her own gifts, and felt only 
humility and gratitude to the man who had found 
in her a comrade in intellectual pursuits, as well 
as a helpmeet for his declining years. 

The girls looked up with eyes full of something 
softer than mere curiosity, and felt in their young 
hearts how precious and honorable such a memory 
must be, how true and beautiful such a marriage 
was, and how sweet wisdom might become when 
it went hand in hand with love. 

Alice spoke first, saying, as she touched the 
worn cover of the little book with a new sort of 
respect, " Thank you very much ! Perhaps I 
ought not to have taken this from the corner 
shelves in your sanctum ! I wanted to find the 
rest of the lines Mr. Thornton quoted last night, 
and did n't stop to ask leave." 

" You are welcome, my love, for you know how- 

to treat books. Yes, those in that little case are my 
precious relics. I keep them all, fi'om my childish 
hymn-book to my great-grandfather's brass-bound 
Bible, for by and by when I sit ' Looking toward 
Sunset,' as dear Lydia Maria Child calls our last 
days, I shall lose my interest in other books, and 
take comfort in these. At the end as at the be- 
ginning of life we are all children again, and 
love the songs our mothers sung us, and find the 
one true Book our best teacher as we draw near to 

As the reverent voice paused, a ray of sunshine 
broke through the parting clouds, and shone full 
on the serene face turned to meet it, with a smile 
that welcomed the herald of a lovely sunset. 

" The rain is over; there will be just time for a 
I'un in the garden before dinner, girls. I must go 
and put on my cap, for literary ladies should not 
neglect to look well after the ways of their house- 
hold and keep themselves tidy, no matter how old 
they may be." And with a nod Mrs. Warburton 
left them, wondering what the effect of the con- 
versation would be on the minds of her young 

Alice went away to the garden, thinking of Lucre- 
tia and her lover, as she gathered flowers in the 
sunshine. Conscientious Evatookthe " Lifeof Mary 
Somerville" to her room, and read diligently for 
half an hour, that no time might be lost in her 
new course of reading. Carrie sent her paper 
novel up the chimney in a lively blaze, and, as 
she watched the book burn, decided to take her 
blue and gold volume of Tennyson with her on 
her next trip to Nahant, in case any eligible learned 
or literary man's head should offer itself as a shin- 
ing mark. 

When they all met at dinner-time the old lady 
was pleased to see a nosegay of fresh pansies in 
the bosoms of her three youngest guests, and to 
hear Alice whisper, with grateful eyes : 

" VVe wear your flower to show you that we 
don't mean to forget the lesson you so kindly gave 
us, and to fortify ourselves with ' noble thoughts,' 
as you and she did." 



By Hattie Whitney. 

In the soft snowy heart of a thistle, 

Prince Tiptoe one morning was born ; 
When the sound of the partridge's whistle 

Arose from the ripening corn ; 
When the sunlight was dreamily tender. 

And the hill-tops were smoky and blue. 
And a firint, indescribable splendor 

In many a cloud-rift came through. 

But the gay little zephyr grew weary, 

And declared she should soon have to stop; 
And she said, "There 's a cottage, my deary, 

On its porch you must quietly drop." 
It was sheltered and shady and airy, 

And an oak-tree high over it rose ; 
And His Highness came down like a fairy 

On the tips of his downy white toes. 

Then a breeze from the South Wind's dominions 

Flew by, and Prince Tiptoe was whirled 
Away, on invisible pinions. 

From his own little silk-curtained world; 
He was tossed in the air like a feather, 

And twirled till he almost forgot 
His name, and could scarcely tell whether 

He was really Prince Tiptoe or not. 

And softly he danced to the measure 

Of the thrush's song up in the tree. 
And forgot in his light-hearted pleasure 

That danger anear him might be, — 
An urchin was slowly advancing. 

Whose pansy-blue, wondering eyes 
Saw not in that small atom dancing 

A Fairy-land prince in disguise. 

But he knew there was nothing to match it 

In the length and the breadth of the town ; 
And he said with a shout, " I will catch it — 

That beautiful white thistle-down." 
Ha ! the sly little breeze was but hiding. 

And watching her nursling at play ; 
And forth she came noiselessly gliding, 

— And Prince Tiptoe was up and away ! 


By Katharine Scott Kelso. 

"Are there any mistakes in it, Auntie?" asked 
Bess, a little anxiously. Her aunt laid down the 
envelope she had been examining, and said : 

" No, my dear. What made you think so?" 

" Why, you have been gazing at it for five whole 
minutes, and if you were n't looking for mistakes, 
I 'd like to know what you were thinking of" 

" Of Julius Casar," replied Aunt Sarah thought- 

"Julius C^sar ! " exclaimed Rob, who, up to 
this time had been absorbed in a book ; " what has 
he to do with Bessie's letter to Grandma?" 

" Not very much, but the address certainly made 
me think of him. Suppose I tell you all that the 
address suggests to me," continued their aunt, 
picking up the letter and reading again. " We 'II 

take the words in their order. 'Mrs.' stands for 

"Missis, I suppose," replied Bess, "but I don't 
see any r in missis." 

" If you look in the dictionary, you will find 
missis is a contraction for mistress, and that ex- 

plains the r. Can either of you tell me what the 
next word literally means ?" 

" I know," said Bessie, eagerly. " I found it in 
' Meanings of proper names.' It is the 'Christ- 

"Yes," said her aunt. "The termination is 
from a Latin word meaning ' to carry.' Now, the 
word ' Smith ' comes from the verb to smite. ' No.' 
is, of course, a contraction for ' number' ; but we 
have to go back to the Latin term, mtmero, to 
account for the o which is here used. ' Twenty' is 
compounded of two words, meaning twice and a 
decade, that is, twice-ten. Now, who can tell me 
about ' Main?'" 

" It means the principal street, doesn't it?" 
said Rob, with great confidence. 

" It does here, but main used 

to mean something quite different. 
You find the original meaning in 
the expression : ' With all his might 
and main.' It denoted strength or 
power, and afterward came to mean 
the strongest part, and hence, 
principal. Rob can tell us some- 
thing of the next word, which comes 
from the Latin verb sterna.'" 

"What?" cried Rob, eager to 
show his scholarship ; " from ster- 
iiere, stravi, s/i-a/iim, to pave?" 

" Exactly," said his aunt ; " and 
so a paved way was called a street, 
to distinguish it from a lane or 
alley. " 

" Does ' Trenton ' mean ' on-the- 
Trent?' " was Bessie's timid suggestion. 

" Yes, and Trent means a winding river — from 
the same root as trend, to turn, I suppose." 

" I don't see anything about Caesar," said Rob, 
impatient to hear something of his favorite hero. 
" No ? Well, we are just coming to him. New 




Jersey was named in honor of Sir George Carteret, 
an inhabitant of the isle of Jersey. New was 
added, of course, to distinguish it from the English 
Jersey. The name Jersey signifies ' Csesar's isle.' 
The ending ca or ey denotes an island. Probably 
the name was first Cffisarea, and was corrupted into 
Jersey. Of course this suggests the conquest of 
England by the Romans, and many other things 
of historical interest." 

"Where do you find all these things ?" asked 

" All that I have told you can easily be found in 
an Unabridged Dictionary." 

"What! about ' Ca;sar's isle,' and all that?" 
exclaimed Rob. 

" Yes, indeed, if you look in the right places. 
A great many people use the dictionary merely to 
correct their spelling, or to learn the present mean- 
ing of unusual words ; few realize the vast amount 
of information it contains. Let me read you a bit 
from Ruskin about word-hunting," said Aunt 
Sarah, taking a book from the shelf " Here it is : 

" ' Nearly every word in your language has been 
first a word of some other language — of Saxon, 
German, French, Latin, or Greek (not to speak of 
Eastern and primitix'e dialects). And many words 
have been all these ; — that is to say, have been 
Greek first, Latin next, French or German next, 
and English last : undergoing a certain change of 
sense and use on the lips of each nation ; but re- 

taining a deep vital meaning, which all good 
scholars feel in employing them, even at this day. 
. When you are in doubt about a word, 
hunt it down patiently. Never let a word escape 
you that looks suspicious. It is severe work ; but 
you will find it, even at first, interesting, and at 
last, endlessly amusing. And the general gain to 
your character, in power and precision, will be 
quite incalculable. . . . You might read all the 
books in the British Museum (if you could live long 
enough), and remain an utterly " illiterate," un- 
educated person, but if you read ten pages of a 
good book, letter by letter, — that is to say, with 
real accuracy, — you are forever more in some 
measure an educated person.'" 

" Read us some more," pleaded Rob. 

" Tell us some more about words," asked Bessie, 
in the same breath. 

" I have n't time now," said their aunt, as she 
replaced the volume; "but even Bessie's letter 
suggests many words that would be interesting if 
looked up by yourselves. Write them down as I 
name them, — 'Paper, Pen, Ink, Stamp, Postage, 
Post, Mail, Seal, Envelope, Direct, Address, Sig- 
nature, Superscribe, Write, Mucilage, Date, Month, 
Day, Year, City, County, State.'" 

As their aunt left the room, Bessie, eying 
her letter thoughtfully, said ; 

" How astonished Grandma would be to know 
all that 's on this envelope ! " 


By D.A.VIU Ker. 


It was a bright, cloudless, burning day in Lower 
Egypt, in the year 1798. Beneath the blistering 
glare of the noonday sun, the white, flat-roofed 
houses and tall tapering minarets of Suez stood 
gauntly out against a dreary background of gray, 
sandy, lifeless desert. Not a breath of wind was 
stirring in the hot. close, heavy air, and the blue, 
shining waters of the Gulf of Suez lay outspread 
like a vast mirror at the foot of the rocky headland 
of Ras Attakah, on the summit of which sat erect 

in their saddles a small group of horsemen in the 
rich uniform of French staff-officers. 

The leader of the party seemed to be a small, 
thin, long-haired man, with a sallow, sickly face, 
who sat his horse awkwardly, as if he were any- 
thing but a practised rider. His slight figure 
appeared quite dwarfish among the sturdy frames 
and grim faces of the veteran w-arriors around him ; 
but in his keen gray eyes, which seemed to pierce 
right through any one to whom he spoke, there 
was an expression so stern and commanding that 
few men could face it unmoved. 



And well might it be so. Young though he 
was, — for he had only just passed his twenty-ninth 
birthday, — this man had already become famous 
as the greatest soldier of his time ; and although 
he was as yet known only as General Bonaparte, 
the day was not far distant when he was to call 
himself the Emperor Napoleon. 

On the brow of the cliff the General reined up 
his horse, and spoke a few words to his guide, who 
was quite as remarkable a figure as himself, though 
in a widely different way. Tall, strongly made, 
sinewy and active as a deerhound, with his black 
beard flowing down over his long white robe, his 

prayed unto Allah (God) and Allah brought the 
sea upon the Sultan and his host, and destroyed 
them every one. The S.ultan was a great con- 
queror," added the Sheikh with grim emphasis, as 
he shot a quick sidelong glance at Bonaparte, 
" but he could not conquer the sea." 

" What should hinder us from crossing it our- 
selves?" said the General, too eager to notice this 
ominous allusion. " The water is shallow enough, 
and it is no great distance. Gentlemen, have you 
a mind to follow in the tracli of Moses ? How is 
the tide, Rustum?" 

•■Full ebb," answered the guide, turning his 


snowy turban overarching his keen 

dark eyes, his short curving sword _ 

suspended in a sash of crimson silk. 

Sheikh Rustum looked the very picture —Z^ 

of an Eastern warrior; and the scars 

that seamed his swarthy features showed 

that he had many a time looked in 

the face of death. 

"You say, then," said Bonaparte, addressing 
the guide, "that yon sandy patch at the foot of 
these cliffs is supposed to be the very place where 
Moses led the Israelites through the sea?" 

"So have our fathers told us. Sultan Kebir 
(King of Fire)," answered the Egyptian, calling 
the General by the name under which he was 
already famous throughout all Egypt and Syria. 
" Along these hills the Sultan of Egypt encamped 
with his army, and over those sands he went down 
into the sea to pursue after the Beni Izrail (chil- 
dren of Israel). But the Prophet Moussa (Moses) 

face quickly away to conceal the gleam of cruel joy 
that lighted up his great black eyes. 

" We '11 try it, then," said Napoleon, in his usual 
tone of decision. ' ' We have plenty of time to cross, 
and if the tide comes up before we can get back, 
it is no long ride around by Suez. Rustum, you can 
go back to the town. Follow me, gentlemen." 

And off rode the whole party in high spirits, 
while Rustum's keen eyes followed them with a 
glare of savage triumph which might have startled 
the boldest of them if they could have seen it. 

" He goes down in his pride to destruction," mut- 
tered the Sheikh, "even as Sultan Pharaoh did in 

//r //// // 

'the sultan was a great conqueror/ said the sheikh, 'but he could not conquer the sea,' 




the days of old. Water quenches fire, and the 
great King of Fire himself, who has slain my 
brothers the Mamelukes, shall be quenched by the 
waves of the sea." 


Merrily rode the French officers over the 
smooth, firm sand and through the shallow water 
beyond it, laughing and joking at the idea of going 
across the sea on horseback. This ride, too, was 
a much pleasanter one than the last, for the wind 
had begun to rise, and was blowing steadily from 
the south over the Gulf, bringing with it the fresh- 
ness and coolness of the open sea. And so they 
rode onward, onward, onward still, until the bold 
rocky bluff of Ras Attakah and the tall figure of 
Rustum on its summit began to grow dim in the 

Suddenly a young captain who rode a little to 
the right of the party noticed that the water seemed 
to be deepening rapidly all around them. For a 
few moments no one thought anything of it ; but 
ere long the General himself checked his horse, 
and looked keenly southward, every line of his 
dark, sallow face seeming to harden suddenly as 
he did so. 

The tide was coming in fast, and they were not 
yet half-way across. 

Their only chance was to turn back : but, the 
moment they did so, the full sweep of the tide, 
driven against them by the strong south wind, 
caught them with a force that almost whirled the 
horses off their feet. 

Deeper and deeper grew the water, stronger and 
stronger pressed the current. And all this while 
the sun shone joyously overhead, and the leaping 
waves danced and sparkled in the light, and the 
wind waved the feathery tops of the distant palm- 
trees, and all around was bright and beautiful. 

" We have one chance yet," cried Bonaparte, 
rising in his stirrups, and lifting his voice as to be 
heard by the whole party. " There is a long 
sand-bar somewhere hereabout, upon which the 
water is only a few feet deep. If we can once find 
it, we are saved. Let us all ride in different direc- 

tions, and he who strikes the bar must shout at 

The commander's cool, clear tones steadied at 
once the shaken nerves of his followers, and he 
was instantly obeyed. Presently a shout was heard 
from the young captain, who appeared to have 
risen suddenly out of the water, in which his horse 
now stood barely knee-deep. The bar was found ! 

All the rest immediately headed toward him, 
and began to pick their way along the unseen 
sand-ridge toward the western shore. More than 
once the exhausted horses seemed about to fall, 
with safety actually in sight ; but, affcr a long 
struggle, they all came safe to land. 

When Rustum (who had watched the whole 
scene with breathless interest) saw them return 
unharmed, he ran to meet them, and, laying his 
turban on Bonaparte's knee in token of submission, 
said gloomily : 

" King of Fire, thou art mightier than the 
waves of the sea. Take my life, for I will ask no 

" What have you done, then, that I should take 
your life?" asked the young conqueror, on whose 
marble features even the peril which he had just 
escaped had left no trace whatever. 

" I am a Mameluke," answered Rustum proudly, 
" and even as thy sword had devoured my brethren, 
I hoped that the waves would devour thee. When 
I told thee it was full ebb, I spoke falsely. The 
tide had already turned, and I sent thee, as I 
thought, to certain death." 

" It is wasting good material to kill a man while 
you can do anything else with him," said Napo- 
leon, as coolly as ever. " If I spare your life, what 
will you do, then ?" 

" I will be thy servant," cried the Mameluke, 
eying him with a glance of savage admiration. 
"Rustum, the son of Selim, can serve none but 
the greatest chief on earth, and thou art he ! " 

" So be it," said Bonaparte. " Henceforth you 
are my servant, and I think I shall find you a 
good one." 

And so he did ; for in the day of his downfall, 
years later, one of the few who remained faithful 
to him was Rustum the Mameluke. 

Throughout that portion of the easterly Uni- 
ted States where the noble bay called the Chesa- 
peake cuts Virginia in two, and where the James, 
broadest of all the rivers of the "Old Dominion," 
rolls its glittering waters toward the sea, there 
lived, years ago, a notable race of men. 

For generations they had held the land, and 
though their clothing was scanty and their customs 
odd, they possessed many of the elements of charac- 
ter that are esteemed noble and, had they been 
left to themselves, might have progressed — so 
people who have studied into their character now 
believe — into a fairly advanced stage of what is 
known as barbaric civilization. 

They lived in long, low houses of bark and 
boughs, each house large enough to accommodate 
from eighty to a hundred persons — twenty families 
toahouse. These "longhouses" were, therefore, 
much the same in purpose as are the tenement 
houses of to-day, save that the tenements of that 
far-off time all were on the same floor and were 
open closets, or stalls, about eight feet wide, fur- 
nished with bunks built against the walls and 
spread with deer-skin robes for comfort and cover- 
ing. These stalls were arranged on either side of 
a broad, central passage-way ; and in this passage- 
way, at equal distances apart, fire-pits were con- 

made, attractive, 
and coppery-col- 
ored folk — were 
what are now 
termed commun- 
ists; that is, they lived from common stores and all 
had an equal share in the land and its yield, — 
the products of their vegetable gardens, their hunt- 
ing and fishing expeditions, their home labors, and 
their household goods. 

Their method of government was entirely demo- 
cratic. No one, in any household, was better off 
or of higher rank than his brothers or sisters. 
Their chiefs were simply men — and sometimes 
women — who had been raised to leadership by the 
desire and vote of their associates ; but they pos- 
sessed no special authority or power, except such as 
was allowed them by the general consent of their 
comrades, in view of their wisdom, bravery, or abil- 
ity. This people was, in fact, one great family bound 
in close association by their habits of life and their 
family relationshijis, and they knew no such un- 
natural distinctions as king or subject, lord or 

Around their long bark tenements stretched 
carefully cultivated fields of corn and pumpkins, 
the trailing bean, the full-bunched grape-vine, the 
structed, the heat from which served to warm the juicy melon, and the big-leafed tahah, or tobacco, 
bodies and cook the dinners of the occupants of The field work was performed by the women — 
the '' long house," each fire being shared by four the natural result, where the conditions of life re- 
families, quire all the men and boys to be hunters and 
In their mode of life these people — a tall, well- warriors. 



These sturdy forest-folk of old Virginia, who had 
reached that state of human advance, midway 
between savagery and civilization, which is known 
as barbarism, were but a small portion of that 
red-skinned, vigorous, and interesting race known 
to us by the general but wrongly-used name of 
" Indians." They belonged to one of the largest 
divisions of this barbaric race, known as the 
Algonquin family — a division created solely by 
a similarity of language and of blood-relation- 
ships — and were, therefore, of the kindred of the 
Indians of Canada, of New England, and of Penn- 
sylvania, of the valley of the Ohio, the island of 
Manhattan, and of some of the far-away lands 
beyond the Mississippi. 

So, for generations, they lived, with their simple 
home customs and their family affections, with 
their games and sports, their legends, and their 
songs, their dances, fast and feasts, their hunting 
and their fishing, their tribal feuds and wars. 

At the time of our story, certain of these Algon- 
quin tribes of Virginia were joined together in a 
sort of Indian republic, composed of thirty tribes 
scattered through Central and Eastern Virginia. 
It was known to its neighbors as the Confederacy 
of the Pow-ha-tans. taking its name from the tribe 
that was at once the strongest and the most en- 
ergetic one in the confederation, having its fields 
and villages along the broad river known to the 
Indians as the Pow-ha-tan and to us as the James. 

The principal chief of the Pow-ha-tans was Wa- 
bun-so-na-cook, called by the white men Pow-ha- 
tan. He was a strongly built but rather stern- 
faced old gentleman of about sixty, and possessed 
such an influence over his tribesmen that he was 
regarded as the head man (president, we might 
say), of this forest republic, which comprised the 
thirty confederated tribes of Pow-ha-tan. The 
confederacy in its strongest days never numbered 
more than eight or nine thousand people, and yet 
it was considered one of the largest Indian con- 
federacies in America. This fact tends to prove 
that there was never a very extensive Indian popu- 
lation in America, even before 'the w-hite man 
discovered it. 

Into one of the Pow-ha-tan villages, that stood 
very near the shores of Chesapeake Bay and almost 
opposite the now historic site of Yorktown, came 
on a raw day, in the winter of 1607, an Indian run- 
ner whose name was Ra-bun-ta. He came as one 
who had important news to tell, but he paused not 
for shout or question from the inquisitive boys who 
were tumbling about in the light snow, at their 
favorite game of a-a-tcd-sa, or the "snow snake" 
game. One of the boys, a mischievous and sturdy 
young Indian of thirteen, whose name was Nan- 

* Po-ca-lum-tas, Algonquin 


ta-qua-us, even tried to insert the slender knob- 
headed stick, which was the " snake " in the game, 
between the runner's legs, and trip him up. But 
Ra-bun-ta was too skillful a runner to be stopped 
by trifles; he simply kicked the " snake" out of 
his way, and hurried on to the long house of the 

Now this Indian settlement into which the run- 
ner had come was the Pow-ha-tan village of Wero- 
woco-moco, and was the one in which the old chief 
Wa-bun-so-na-cook usually resided. Here was the 
long council-house in which the chieftains of the 
various tribes in the confederacy met for council 
and for action, and here too was the "long tene- 
ment house " in which the old chief and his imme- 
diate family lived. 

It was into this dwelling that the runner dashed. 
In a group about the central fire-pit he saw the 
chief. Even before he could himself stop his head- 
long speed, however, his race with news came to 
an unexpected end. The five fires all were sur- 
rounded by lolling Indians ; for the weather in that 
winter of 1607 was terribly cold, and an Indian, 
when inside his house, always likes to get as close 
to the fire as possible. But down the long passage- 
way the children were noisily playing at their 
games — 2X gus-kd-eh, or "peach-pits," zX gits-ga- 
c-sd-td, or " deer-buttons," and some of the younger 
ones were turning wonderful somersaults up and 
down the open spaces between the fire-pits. Just 
as the runner, Ra-bun-ta, sped up the passage- 
way, one of these youthful gymnasts witli a dizzy 
succession of handsprings came whizzing down the 
passage-way right in the path of Ra-bun-ta. 

There was a sudden collision. The tumbler's 
stout little feet came plump against the breast of 
Ra-bun-ta, and so sudden and unexpected was the 
shock that both recoiled, and runner and gymnast 
alike tumbled over in a writhing heap almost in the 
center of one of the big bon-fires. Then there was 
a great shout of laughter, for the Indians dearly 
loved a joke, and such a rough piece of uninten- 
tional pleasantry was especially relished. 

" IVd, wd, Ra-bun-ta," they shouted, pointing at 
the discomfited runner as he picked himself out of 
the fire, " knocked over by a girl ! " 

And the deep voice of the old chief said half 
sternly, half tenderly : 

"My daughter, you have well-nigh killed our 
brother Ra-bun-ta with your foolery. That is 
scarce girls' play. Why will you be such a po-ca- 
hun-tas /" * 

The runner joined in the laugh against him 
quite as merrily as the rest, and made a dash at 
the little ten-year-old tumbler, which she as nimbly 

for a little " tomboy." 




white caii-co-rouse," the 
Indians called the cour- 
govcrnor of the Virginia 

"Ma-ii!a-iio-/o-ivic," * he said, "the feet of Ma- 
ta-oka are even heavier than the snake of Nun- 
ta-qua-us, her brother. I have but escaped them 
both with my life. Ma-ma-iw-to-wic , I have news 
for you. The braves with your brother 0-pe-chan- 
ca-nough have taken the pale-face chief in the 
Chicka-hominy swamps and are bringing him to 
the council-house." 

" Wi?," said the old chief, " it is well, we will be 
ready for him." 

At once Ra-bun-ta was surrounded and plied 
with questions. The earlier American Indians 
were always a very inquisitive folk, and were great 
gossips. Ra-bun-ta's news would furnish fire-pit 
talk for months, so they must know all the par- 
ticulars. What was this white cau-co-rouse (cap- 
tain or leader) like ? AVhat had he on ? Did he 
use his magic against the braves? Were any of 
them killed ? 

For the fame of "the 
" Great Captain," as the 
ageous and intrepid little 
Colony, Captain John Smith, had already gone 
throughout the confederacy, and his capture was 
even better than a victory over their deadliest 
enemies, the Manna-ho-acks. 

Ra-bun-ta was as good a gossip and story-teller 
as any of them, and as he squatted before the upper 
fire-pit, and ate a hearty meal of parched corn, 
which the little Ma-ta-oka brought him as a peace- 
offering, he gave the details of the celebrated cap- 
ture. The " Great Captain," he said, and two of 
his men had been surprised in the Chicka-hominy 
swamps by the chief 0-pe-chan-ca-nough and two 
hundred braves. The two men were killed by the 
chief, but the " Captain," seeing himself thus en- 
trapped, seized his Indian guide and fastened him 
before as a shield, and then sent out so much of his 
magic thunder from his fire-tube that he killed or 
wounded many of the Indians, and yet kept him- 
self from harm though his clothes were torn with 
arrow-shots. At last, however, said the runner, 
the " Captain " had slipped into a mud-hole in the 
swamps, and, being there surrounded, was dragged 
out and made captive, and he, Ra-bun-ta, had 
been sent on to tell the great news to the chief 

The Indians especially admired bravery and cun- 
ning. This device of the white chieftain and his 
valor when attacked appealed to their admiration, 
and there was great desire to see him when next 
day he was brought into the village by 0-pe-chan- 
ca-nough, the chief of the Pa-mun-kee (or York 
River) Indians, and brother of the chief of the 

The renowned prisoner was received with the 
customary chorus of Indian yells; and then, acting 

upon the one leading Indian custom, the law of 
unbounded hospitality, a bountiful feast was set 
before him. The captive, like the valiant man he 
was, ate heartily, though ignorant what his fate 
might be. 

The Indians seldom wantonly killed their cap- 
ti\es. When a sufficient number had been sacri- 
ficed to avenge the memory of such braves as had 
fallen in fight, the remaining captives were either 
adopted as tribesmen or disposed of as slaves. 

So valiant a warrior as this pale-faced cau-co- 
rousc was too important a personage to be used as 
a slave, and Wa-bun-so-na-cook, the chief, received 
him as an honored guest f rather than as a pris- 
oner, kept him in his own house for two days, and 
adopting him as his own son, promised him a large 
gift of land. Then, with many expressions of 
friendship, he returned him, well escorted by Indian 
guides, to the trail that led back direct to the Eng- 
lish colony at Jamestown. 

This relation destroys the long-familiar romance 
of the doughty Captain's life being saved by " the 
King's " own daughter, but it seems to be the only 
true version of the story, based upon his own 
original report. 

But though the oft-described "rescue" did not 
take place, the valiant Englishman's attention was 
speedily drawn to the agile little Indian girl, Ma- 
ta-oka, whom her father called his " tomboy," or 

She was as inquisitive as any young girl, savage 
or civilized ; and she was so full of kindly attentions 
to the Captain, and bestowed on him so many 
smiles and looks of wondering curiosity, that Smith 
made much of her in return, gave her some trifling 
presents, and asked her name. 

Now it was one of the many singular customs of 
the American Indians never to tell their own 
names, nor even to allow them to be spoken to 
strangers by any of their own immediate kindred. 
The reason for this lay in their peculiar supersti- 
tion, which held that the speaking of one's real name 
gave to the stranger to whom it was spoken a magi- 
cal and harmful influence over such person. 

For this very reason, Wa-bun-so-na-cook was 
known to the colonists by the name of his tribe, 
Pow-ha-tan, rather than by his own name. So, 
when he was asked his little daughter's name, he 
hesitated, and then gave in reply the nickname 
by which he often called her, Po-ca-hun-tas, the 
" little tomboy." This agile young maiden, by 
reason of her relationship to the head chief, was 
allowed much more freedom and fun than was 
usually the lot of Indian girls, who were, as a rule, 
the patient and uncomplaining little drudges of 
every Indian home and village. 

* " Great man " or " strong one," a title by which Wa-bun-so-na-cook, or Powhatan, was frequently addressed. 

t " Hee kindly welcomed me with good wordes," says Smith's own narrative, " assuring me his friendship and my libertie." 



So, when Captain Smith left Wero-woco-moco, 
he left one tirm friend behind him — the pretty 
little Indian girl, Ma-ta-oka — who long remem- 
bered the white man and his presents, and deter- 
mined, after her own willful fashion, to go into the 
white man's village and see all its wonders for 

In less than a year she saw the Captain again. 


.-te^.-.» ri&i y.s . , jj...;-.^jj'A A!a».j 



For when, in the fall of 1608, he came to her 
father's village to invite the old chief to Jamestown 
to be crowned by the English as " King" of the 
Pow-ha-tans, this bright little girl of twelve gath- 
ered together the other little girls of the village, 
and, almost upon the very spot where Cornwallis 
in later years was to surrender the armies of Eng- 
land to the "rebel" republic, she with her com- 

panions entertained the English captain with a gay 
Indian dance, full of noise and frolic. 

Soon after this second interview, Ma-ta-oka's 
wish to see the white man's village was gratified. 
For in that same autumn of 1608 she came 
with Ra-bun-ta to Jamestown. She sought out 
the Captain, who was then " President " of the col- 
ony, and "entreated the libertie" of certain of 
her tribesmen who had 
been " detained " — in 
other words, treacherous- 
ly made prisoners by the 
settlers because of some 
fear of an Indian plot 
against them. 

Smith was a shrewd 
enough man to know 
when to bluster and when 
to be friendly. He re- 
leased the Indian captives 
at Ma-ta-oka's wish — 
well knowing that the 
little girl had been duly 
"coached" by her wily 
old father, but feeling 
that even the friendship 
of a child may often be 
of value to people in a 
strange land. 

The result of this visit 
to Jamestown was the fre- 
quent presence in the 
town of the chieftain's 
daughter. She would 
come, sometimes, with 
her brother, Nun-to-qua- 
us, sometimes with the 
runner, Ra-bun-ta, and 
sometimes with certain 
of her girl followers. For 
even httle Indian girls 
had their "dearest 
friends," quite as much 
as have our own clannish 
young schoolgirls of to- 

1 am afraid, however, 
that this twelve-year-old 
Ma-ta-oka fully deserved, 
even when she should have been on her good be- 
havior among the white people, the nickname of 
" little tomboy," Po-ca-hun-tas, that her father had 
given her ; for we have the assurance of sedate Mas- 
ter William Strachey, Secretary of the colony, that 
"the before remembered Pocahontas, Powhatan's 
daughter, sometymes resorting to our fort, of the 
age then of eleven or twelve years, did get the boyes 


{see next I'AGE.) 




forth with her into the markett place, and make 
them wheele, falling on their hands, turning their 
heeles upward, whome she would foUowe and wheele 
so herself, all the fort over." From which it would 
appear that she could easily " stump " the English 
boys at " making cart-wheels." 

But very soon there came a time when she went 
into Jamestown for other purpose than turning 

The Indians soon learned to distrust the white 
men, because of their unfriendly and selfish deal- 
ings, their tyranny, their haughty disregard of 
.the Indians' wishes and desires, and their impudent 
meddling with their chieftains and their tribesmen. 
Discontent grew into hatred, and, led on by certain 
traitors in the colony, a plot was arranged for the 
murder of Captain Smith and the destruction of 
the colony. 

Three times did they attempt to entrap and 
destroy the " Great Captain " and his people ; but 
each time did the little Ma-ta-oka, full of friendship 
and pity for her new acquaintances, steal into the 
town, or find some means of misleading the con- 
spirators, and thus warn her white friends of their 

One dark winter night in January, 1609, Captain 
Smith, who had come to Wero-woco-moco for con- 
ference and treaty with Wa-bun-so-na-cook (whom 
he always called Pow-ha-tan), sat in the York 
River woods awaiting some provisions that the 
chief had promised him, — for eatables were scarce 
that winter in the Virginia Colony. 

There was a light step, beneath which the dry 
twigs on the ground crackled slightly, and the wary 
settler grasped his matchlock and bade his men 
be watchful. Again the twigs crackled, and now 
there came from the shadow of the woods — not a 
train of Indians, but one little girl, Ma-ta-oka, or 

" Be guarded, my father," she said as Smith 
drew her to his side. "The corn and the good 
cheer will come as promised, but even now my 
father, the chief of the Pow-ha-tans, is gatlieringall 
his power to fall upon you and kill you. If you 
would live, get you away at once." 

The captain prepared to act upon her advice 
without delay, but he felt so grateful at this latest 
and so hazardous a proof of the little Indian's 
regard that he desired to manifest his thankfulness 
by presents — the surest way to reach the Indians' 

"My daughter," he said kindly, "you have 
again saved my life, coming alone, and at risk of 
your own young life through the irksome woods 
and in this gloomy night to admonish me. Take 
this, I pray you, from me, and let it always tell you 
of the love of Captain Smith." 

And the grateful pioneer handed her his much- 
prized pocket-compass — an instrument regarded 
with awe by the Indians, and esteemed as one of 
the instruments of the white man's magic. 

But Pocahontas, although she longed to possess 
this wonderful " path-teller," shook her head. 

" Not so, Caii-co-}VHse," she said, " if it should 
be seen by my tribesmen, or even by my father, 
the chief, I should but be as dead to them ; for 
they would know that I had warned you whom 
they have sworn to kill, and so would they kill me 
also. Stay not to parley, my father, but be gone 
at once." 

And with that, says the record, " She ran away 
by herself as she came." 

So the Captain hurried back to Jamestown, and 
Pocahontas returnd to her people. 

Soon after. Smith left the colony, sick and worn 
out by the continual worries and disputes with his 
fellou-colonists And Pocahontas felt that, in the 
absence of her best friend and with the increasing 
troubles between her tribesmen and the pale-faces, 
it would be unwise for her to visit Jamestown. 

Her fears seem to have been well grounded, for 
in the spring of 1613, Pocahontas, being then 
about sixteen, was treacherously and "by strata- 
gem" kidnapped by the bold, unscrupulous Cap- 
tain ArgaU — half pirate, half trader — and held 
by the colonists as hostage for the "friendship" 
of Pow-ha-tan. 

Within those three years she had been married 
to the chief of one of the tributary tribes, Ko-ko- 
um by name ; but, as was the Indian marriage 
custom, Ko-ko-um had come to live among the 
kindred of his wife, and had doubtless been killed 
in one of the numerous Indian fights. 

It was during the captivity of the young widow 
at Jamestown that she became acquainted with 
Master John Rolfe, an industrious young English- 
man, and the man who first of all the American 
colonists attempted the cultivation of tobacco. 

Master Rolfe was a widower and an ardent 
desirer of " the conversion of the pagan salvages." 
He became interested in the young Indian widow, 
though he protests that he married her for the 
purpose of converting her to Christianity, and 
rather ungallantly calls her an " unbelieving 

Well, the Englishman and the Indian girl, as 
we all know, were married, lived happily together, 
and finally departed for England. Here, all too 
soon, in 1617, when she was about twenty-one, 
died the daughter of the great chieftain of the 

Her story is both a pleasant and a sad one. It 
needs none of the additional romance that has 
been thrown about it to make it more interesting. 




An Indian girl, free as her native forests, made 
friends with the race that, all unnecessarily, became 
hostile to her own. Brighter, perhaps, than most 
of the girls of her tribe, she recognized and desired 
to avail herself of the refinements of civilization, 
and so gave up her barbaric surroundings, cast in 
her lot with the white race, and sought to make 
peace and friendship between neighbors take the 
place of quarrel and of war. 

The white race has nothing to be proud of in its 
conquest of the people who once owned and oc- 

cupied the vast area of the North American con- 
tinent. The story is neither an agreeable nor a 
pleasant one. But out of the gloom which surrounds 
it there come some figures that relieve the dark- 
ness, the treachery, and the crime that make it so 
sad ; and not the least impressive of these is this 
bright and gentle little daughter of Wa-bun-so-na- 
cook, chief of the Pow-ha-tans, Ma-ta-oka, friend 
of the white strangers, whom we of this later day 
know by the nickname her loving old father gave 
her — Po-ca-hun-tas, the Algonquin. 

"first class in botany. — PLEASE RISE I " 


By R. M. Johnston. 

A BATTLE-SCENE witnessed by me some years 
ago on my plantation in Middle Georgia reminded 
me with some emphasis of the following verses 
from " Hudibras ": 

" The ancients make Iwo several kinds 

Of prowess in heroic minds : 
The active and the passive valiant: 
Both which are /rt>7'///'rrt gallant: 

For both to give blows and to carry 

In fights are equi-necessarj'." 

It was in one of my fields near the horse-lot 
fence, a few rods above the place where the level 
ground joins the steep bank of the gorge made by 
the waters from the spring. 

The difficulty, and to an outsider the fun, in 
this battle grew out of the fact that neither of the 
belligerents before, during, or after the engage- 
ment, understood the other's method of warfare ; 
and this ignorance worked to the disadvantage of 
the more powerful and pugnacious. 

When the goat fights, he rears himself upon his 
hind legs and makes descending blows with head 
and horns. The sheep, on the contrary, takes a 

running start, and, rushing upon his adversary, 
gives him one butt ; then, after retreating several 
rods, returns for another. 

1 was walking in meditative mood through the 
horse lot, when I heard the sound of a dull, heavy 
blow that was succeeded immediately by a loud, 
defiant cry. I can not say which began the fight ; 
but I believe that it was Old Billy, the goat, and 
that he did it by trespassing too far upon Buck's 
territory in that strip near the fence whither, the 
pea-vines and crab-grass being specially fruit- 
laden, the sheep had repaired. Buck, the ram, 
was of a peaceable nature, though he would fight, 
and fight his very best, on occasion ; whereas Old 
Billy had always been meddlesome and aggressive, 
even before he was the head of the goats. 

Thus diverted from my meditation, I turned and 
walked to the fence. I noticed Old Billy shaking 
his big beard, and laughing scornfully — it sounded 
precisely like a man's laugh — at Buck, as the lat- 
ter with rapid steps was running away from him. 

"You found Old Billy too much for you, eh, 
Buck? I am not surprised." 



I said these words to Buck ; but Buck made no 
answer, nor did he, so far as I heard, open his 
mouth once during the whole engagement. Al- 
ready the two flocks, which had been intermingled, 
seemed to think it prudent to separate, — the sheep 
moving towards the upper, and the goats the lower 
portion of the field. Old Billy, after his laugh, 
turned away in the manner of one in search of a 
foe worthy of his prowess. 

But now, lo, and behold ! 

After retreating about thirty paces, Buck wheeled 
and came furiously back. Old Billy heard his 
galloping feet, but the onset was so swift that, be- 
fore he could turn himself, Buck had given him a 
big bump upon his loin. Stumbling about for a 
second or so, then quickly recovering his poise, 
Billy reared aloft, twisted his neck and head in a 
most wrathful, threatening manner, and there was 
only one thing in the world to save Buck from a 

from his fall ! Again he made himself ready, this 
time for a very death-blow. But whoever sup- 
poses that Buck staid to receive it is widely mis- 
taken. By that time Buck was galloping away as 
if his life depended upon getting far beyond the 
reach of that terrific head-and-horns. 

The tumultuous volley that then poured from 
Old Billy's mouth I could not interpret with entire 
accuracy ; but 1 felt confident that if put into some- 
what modified English, it would have run about 
thus : 

" You coward ! You — you pusillanimous sheep ! 
Hit a gentleman when his back 's turned, and then 
run away — shame ! " And again the indignant 
warrior turned. 

By this time I had to lean against the fence, 
while nigh exhausted with laughter at Old Billy's 
utter inability to understand his doughty adversary's 

'\— ■ 

"the first thing old billy knew — dim!' 

blow of mighty magnitude, and that was — he was 
not there. Having put in his stroke in the manner 
of his kind, Buck had again retreated, and by the 
time Old Billy was ready for him, was far beyond 

I do not understand goat-language, nor can Old 
Billy speak English ; but if I should interpret his 
remarks as they sounded to me, they would be 
highly derogatory to Buck. He appeared as if 
saying : 

" You mean, cowardly sheep ! " 

He turned again, and was moving away, majes- 
tic, slow, when the first thing he knew — Biui ! 

Oh, how wrathful he looked as he recovered 

Vol. XV.— ^. 

Brave as Julius Csesar was Billy, as he had shown 
himself often, not only among his own kind, but 
against other assailants, quadruped and biped ; and 
if he could have gotten in his blows on Buck, the 
latter might have been put where he would not 
have known what had hit him. As it was, how- 
ever, Old Billy never knew, until too late, what 
had hit Jiim. 

The unequal combat continued. The oftener 
Old Billy was knocked over, and subsequently 
viewed Buck retreating, the hotter became his 
wrath, the profounder his disgust, and the more 
abusive his language. I would be ashamed to re- 
peat all the names he seemed to be calling Buck, 




as he champed his tongue, stamped upon the 
ground, and shook his head ;• but he was justly 
provoked, and evidently he was writhing with high 
passion. Besides, I was sure that he was ignorant 
of my being within hearing. 

Now, what do you suppose did Buck? Silently, 
resolutely, as before, he measured off his ground, 
then wheeling, made ready and again took aim. 
Not seeing Old Billy, at first he looked rather sur- 
prised ; but evidently concluding that the field had 


"thes he towered high, inclined his mighty forehead, and the awful blow descended." 

How long the combat might have been pro- 
tracted, if the field had been fairer, there is no tell- 
ing. But after many rounds — perhaps I should 
rather say straights — Old Billy reached the edge 
of the gorge, and was working his way around it. 
Not less, not more surprised than before, but now 
evidently delighted, was he to see Buck rushing for 
another charge. 

' ' A-ha ! A-ha ! 1 have you at last !" his cry seemed 
to be. 

Then he towered high, inclined his mighty fore- 
head, clothed his neck with thunder, and when the 
foe was within reach, the awful blow descended. 
But, alas ! its force was expended in a harmless 
slant on the shoulder of Buck, whose head, like 
a catapult, struck full upon Billy's breast, and 
tumbled him backward over the precipice — heels 
over head, head over heels ! But for the briers 
and thorn-bushes that grew upon the side of the 
declivity, and the most vigorous employment of 
the claws on the bottom of his feet, the old goat 
must have been precipitated into the ravine below. 

been cleared by the flight of his enemy, he turned 
and proceeded to rejoin his flock. 

Meanwhile Old Billy had scrambled back to the 
level, his face sadly soiled, and his beard badly 
draggled. The combat had reached a crisis where- 
in it was evident that to save himself from signal 
defeat, his powers must be exerted to their utter- 
most. Embarrassed by the temporary obstruction 
to his vision, he shook his head with great vio- 
lence, and wiped his face with his fore legs. 
These brief preliminaries concluded, his hind legs 
were drawn almost off the ground, as he reared 
himself for action. 

" Why, where ? — why, how ? — why, what? " 

These were the first words that he appeared to 
say when he found that Buck w'as — gone ! Then 
he went on at so rapid, so passionate a rate, and 1 
was so overcome as I leaned on the fence, that I 
could not follow his tirade intelligently. 

Receiving no answer to his defiant calls, he 
looked all along the fence, up and down, across 
the field. Putting his head horizontal, he gazed 




first with one eye, then with the other, up toward 
the heavens. He wheeled himself about and about, 
and even searched under himself, if perchance the 
coward were behind or beneath him. Then he 
went to the precipice and peered as far as he could 
into the briers and thorn-bushes. 

Suddenly he turned, and — well, other people 
may have heard heartier laughing than his, but 
I never did. 

Nothing could have been plainer to any one 
than that from the very bottom of his heart he was 
triumphing in the full assurance that he had cast 
Buck into the ravine, where in all probability his 
neck was broken. 

Shouting ever, he capered off to the nannies 
and the little goats, among whom I could hear 
him boasting of the signal victory that he had 
won over his ancient enemy. 


By Mrs. George Archibald. 

Our merry little daughter 

Was climbing out of bed — 

Don't you think that 1 'm a good girl? 

Our little daughter said ; 

For all day long this lovely day, 

And all day long to-morrow, 

I have n't done a single thing, 

To give my mother sorrow ! " 


By Almont Barnes. 

^) YOUNG and unmar- 
ried man, who had 
few goods, )et who 
was ready with his 
hands and a won- 
derful worker, lived 
once upon a time 
in Spain. He spent 
much time during 
the day among the 
mountains, cutting 
the hazel-rods, with 
which he made at home crates and wattles, to 
be sold at fairs and markets. He also tilled a little 
I)iece of hired land, and in partnership with another 
he had a small cow. So he went on slowly gaining, 
with patched breeches and not very full stomach, 
but with good health, and contented, — because, 
perhaps, he had known nothing better. 

But being one day in the mountains, and in the 
most lonely part of them, — because in the least 
frequented parts they always find good hazel-rods, — 
he cut this rod and that, and lo, he heard the 
music of a sea-shell near him ! and so sweetly 
made that it was glorious to hear. And hearing 
the sea-shell so near, he went toward the sound : 
and going toward the sound, he parted the bram- 
bles ; and parting the brambles, he came to a very 
pretty little opening, where he saw the sea-shell 
alone, against a great mole-hill, sounding without 
ceasing. But, for all that, he came nearer the 
mole-hill and saw that at its very edge, and with 
his little feet in the hole, there was seated a dwarf 
smaller than a man's clinched hand, and that it 
was this dwarf who made the music upon the 
sea-shell. And the dwarf, seeing the young man, 
stopped playing, and said to him : 
" What is it, good friend ? " 
" I came here," responded the youth, "to know 
who makes such fine music ; but if 1 disturb you, I 
will go back to the place from which I came." 
At this the dwarf said to the vounsr man : 

"Disturb whom, man? Know that it was for 
you to come that 1 was playing." 

And so the youth and the dwarf got into conver- 
sation, and the youth told the dwarf all the troubles 
of his life. And after telling him all the troubles 
of his life, the dwarf said to the young man : 

" But, friend, I knew of all this before; and be- 
cause 1 knew of it all, I called you with the music, 
to ask you what it is you desire in reward for your 

To this the young man responded : 

"Besides what I have from my rented ground 
and the partnership, if I had twice as much more 
with which to live without this labor upon the 
mountains, which is what troubles me, I should 
believe myself the richest man in the place, and 
would not envy the King of the Indies." 

"the young man saw a dwarf who wade the music 
upon the sea-shell." 

" Well, take what you desire, if what you say is 
enough," answered the dwarf; and the youth re- 
sponded ; 

"It is enough, and sufficient for me, seeing what 
I have had until now, and the evil use 1 might 
make of more because of my ignorance." 



Then the dwarf said to him : 

'"Take up this dirt that you see near me, and 
put it into your handkerchief." 

But the young man was astonished at this com- 
mand, and thought the dwarf was mocking at him. 
Then the dwarf said again : 

" Take it up, man, without hesitation, for I have 
my palaces full of it ; and to them this passage 
goes in which my feet are." 

Whether the youth thought this was true or not, 
he pulled his handkerchief out from his breast and 
threw into it a good heap of the dirt, and then tied 
the corners of the handkerchief together. And 
then the dwarf said to him : 

'■ Now go home, and when you go to bed, put 
this dirt under your bed-blanket, as it is in your 
handkerchief When you awake in the morning, 
you will see if 1 have deceived you." 

Well, the young man did as he was directed, 
and upon awaking in the morning with the sun, 
he opened the handkerchief; and behold, the dirt 
had changed into golden doubloons and half-doub- 
loons — with one and another he had more than a 
thousand! The poor crate-maker was almost be- 
side himself with joy. But as his senses came back 
to him little by little, he began to make his plans : 
so many measures of ground so, and so many in 
this way; so many cattle of this kind, and so many 
of another; a cart of this kind ; a house like this. 
And you must know that in a little time, with great 
care, and with flocks and herds in sight, well- 
clothed and fed, and with money left in the top of 
his chest, there was such a flutter that the best 
girls of the place were kind to him, and sent him 
memorials with their eyes. And well did he merit 
it ; because, besides being a good young man and 
rich, he continued to be an honored laborer, just 
the same as when he was poor. 

But behold, one day it came to his mind to see 
a little of the world, something that he had never 
seen ; so all at once he took up his quarters in the 
city. Ah, what did he not see there, of festivity, 
courtliness, and dominion ? Those, yes, those 
were the young ladies, with their silken attire, and 
their laces, and their fans, and faces of May roses. 
Those, yes, those were the young gentlemen, with 
their coats of fine cloth, their golden tassels, and 
their shining boots ! What a life was theirs ! This 
one on horseback, that one in a coach, the other, 
with gay companions ! Going here, going there ; 
a good table, plenty of servants, and a big palace — 
what would you want but to live so, and live in 
glory ? 

So it came to pass that the young man went 
back to his village thinking himself the most unfort- 
unate creature in the world. And going back so 
to his native village, he began to doubt about the 

good of his humble possessions, and to dislike 
work; and he spent whole days thinking of what 
he had seen, and of being a gentleman with the 
best. And thinking in this way, he wanted the 
gay coach and horses, and the servants and 

"all at on'ce he took up his quarters in the citv. 

the palace, and a grand lady for a wife ; and 
one could not mention the girls of his neigh- 
borhood to him, because they all seemed un- 
worthy such a person as himself So when he 
had entirely stopped attending to his usual labors, 
and began to feed upon his vanity, there came 
into his mind a certain idea that he did not quite 
dare to put in execution. But, you see, as things 
were, he had no other way than to do it, because 
his vanity was like to make an end of him, and he 
would not return to the soil he had stopped tilling. 

So one day he yoked his oxen to his cart, put 
into the cart half a dozen empty sacks, and went 
up into the mountains ; and going up into the 
mountains, he came to the place for which he was 
looking ; and coming to that place, he heard the 
sound of the dwarf's shell ; and hearing the sound, 
he went near to the dwarf and said to him : 

" Hallo, my good friend ! 1 came to thank you 
for the kindness you did to me some time ago, and 
to ask of you a new one, if it does not displease 



"What is there to displease me, man?" re- 
sponded the dwarf. " If it is anything I can do, 
ask It freely. " 

This answer gave joy to the heart of the young 
man, and he said to the dwarf: 

" Well, I want to fill these sacks, that 1 have 


brought here, with the same kind of dirt that you 
gave me before." 

"All this country is full of it," answered the 
dwarf; "and that being so, dig v/here you like, 
and fill them to your liking. Don't forget to put 
them to-night near the bed, to open them as soon 
as you awake in the morning." 

And saying this, the dwarf went away into the 

passage toward his palaces, and left the young man 
alone ; and the young man dug and dug, and in a 
little time he filled his sacks with dirt, and then 
went home with them as happy as the crickets. 
And when night came, he went to bed ; but he 
slept little because of the disturbance which he 
carried in his mind, and at daylight he was livelier 
than a rabbit ; and being livelier than a rabbit, he 
thought he would dig a deep well in which to 
guard so many doubloons as ought to come out 
of those sacks. And, thinking about this, he 
opened the sacks ; and upon opening the sacks, he 
found nothing therem but the dirt he had shoveled 
into them in the mountains ! The poor young man 
was in agony ; and being in agony, he tried to con- 
sole himself with the thought that, looking at 
things properly, there was enough for him with 
what remained from the first time ; and, thinking 
so, he went to the chest where he kept the little 
money that he had left, and behold, that was dirt 
also, like the dirt in the sacks ! — and even the 
papers about his purchases were dirt ! 

Then he went to the stable, and his oxen were 
mountains of dirt ; and great heaps of dirt were 
the herds which he bought with the money of 
the dwarf. There was left then not one beast 
except the cow of the partnership. 

Then he went back to the house, and he saw 
that it was the same in which he lived when he 
was a poor crate-maker ; and at the gate there was 
a load of hazel-rods and some half-finished crates. 
He sobbed, and beat his breast, the idle fellow, 
and went up into the mountains to tell the dwarf 
about his misfortune ; but the dwarf said to him : 

"This which has happened to you I can not 
help. I can only say to you that the misery which 
has come upon you is the punishment upon your 
covetousness ; for )-ou wished to pass at one bound, 
without meriting it, from the position of a thrifty 
crate-maker to that of a gentleman of importance. 
But the linnet keeps to its kind." 

And the dwarf disappeared in the passage lead- 
ing to his palaces; but the youth heard no more 
the music of the shell, as if it were a sound from 

by JSjy^ic.c<r. 

Vnxs calm, adhesive King 
Tells tne Owner oi" tneit Ining 
irie must pei^ ei triple license on it's 

tciil , leiil , IciiV. 
^ecys tne Owner," there 's hul one 
VvncL 1 U ycxy for ihal or none". 
Vvncl so the Ouard hcis pu,l hin7 in the 

ja-il, jeiil , Jcixl. 


By John R. Coryell. 

AZY and clumsy-looking as 
the elephant appears in our 
menageries, where it ismerely 
an object of curiosity, in Asia 
it is as useful an animal as 
■ the horse, and is, indeed, 
employed in a greater variety 
of ways. 
'' There are few, if any, tasks 

which a horse can be trusted to 
perform without careful and con- 
stant guidance ; whereas the el- 
ephant is frequently given as 
much independence of action as 
a man would have for the same 
work. This is notably the case 
in the lumber-yards of Rangoon 
and Maulmein, where the entire 
operation of moving and piling- 
the heavy timber is performed by 
male elephants without any spe- 
cial supervision by the keepers. 
The logs to be mioved are 
teakwood, which is very heavy. 
They are cut into lengths of 
twenty feet, with a diameter, or 
perhaps a square, of about a 
foot. An elephant will go to a log, 
kneel down, thrust his tusks under the 
middle of it, curl his trunk over it, test it to see that it is evenly balanced, and then rise with it and 
easily carry it to the pile which is being made. Placing the log carefully on the pile in its proper 
place, the sagacious animal will step back a few paces and measure with his eye to determine whether 
or not the log needs pushing one way or another. It will then make any necessary alteration of posi- 
tion. In this \\av, without a word of command from its mahout, or driver, it will go on with its work. 



To do any special task, it must, of course, be 
directed by the maliout : but it is marvelous to 
see how readily this great creature comprehends 
its instructions, and how ingeniously it makes use 
of its strength. If a log too heavy to be carried 
is to be moved a short distance, the elephant will 
bend low, place his great head against the end of 
the log and then with a sudden exertion of strength 
and weight throw his body forward and fairly push 

strength and size unfit for such work, yet so docile 
and intelligent is it, that it performs the task as 
satisfactorily as the horse. 

The fact is that the clumsiness of the elephant 
is far more seeming than real. No animal can 
move more softly and few more swiftly, as many 
an astonished hunter has discovered when his 
horse has been left far behind by a fleeing elephant. 
Its suppleness^ too, is vastly greater than would be 


the log along ; or, to move the log any great dis- 
tance, he will encircle it with a chain — using his 
trunk for that purpose — and drag his load behind 

As a rule, however, the work of dragging is 
done by the female elephants, since, having no 
tusks, they can not carry logs as the male elephants 
do. A man could hardly display more judgment 
in the adjustment of the rope or chain around a 
log, nor could a man with his two hands tie and 
untie knots more skillfully than do they with their 

In some parts of India the elephant is used to 
drag the plow, and, though it seems from its great 

supposed from a mere look at its bulky body. 
Any one who has seen its performances in the 
menagerie will, however, be able to comprehend 
that fact. 

It is owing to its combined docility, intelligence, 
strength, and suppleness that it is enabled to per- 
form the extraordinary tasks imposed upon it — 
tasks which range between two such extremes as 
child's nurse and public executioner. It is not 
often, perhaps, that the elephant acts in the latter 
capacity, but in the former it frequently does, — 
ably, too, for the monstrous beast seems to have 
a natural affection for babies, whether human or 




In India, where the elephant is treated by his the you 
mahout almost as one of the family, the grateful observe 
animal makes a return for 
the kindness shown it by 
voluntarily taking care of 
the baby. It will patiently 
permit itself to be mauled 
by its little charge, and will 
show great solicitude when 
the child cries. Sometimes 
the elephant will become so 
attached to its baby friend 
as to insist upon its constant 
presence. Such a case is 
known where the elephant 
went so far as to refuse to 
eat except in the presence of 
its little friend. Its attach- 
ment was so genuine that 
the child's parents would not 
hesitate to leave the baby 
in the elephant's care, know- 
ing that it could have no 
more faithful nurse. And 
the kindly monster never 
belied the trust reposed in 
it. If the flies came about 
the baby, it would drive them 

away. If the baby 
cried, the giant nurse 
would rock the cradle 
until the little thing 

Nor are only the 
female elephants so 
affectionate with the 
helpless little ones ; the 
male animals are equal- 
ly kind. Perhaps this is 
because the fathers as 
well as the mothers 
among the wild ele- 
phants have the care 
of the elephant babies. 
Mr. C. F. Holder con- 
tributes several inter- 
esting incidents in this 
connection. In a paper 
on the subject he says : 
" How the young 
elephants, in the large 
herds, escape from be- 
ing crushed, is some- 
thing of a mystery, as 
they are almost contin- 
ually in motion ; but 
when a herd is alarmed, 
ng ahiiost immediately disappear. A close 
r would see that each baby was trotting 





along directly beneath its 
mother, sometimes be- 
tween her fore legs, and 
in various positions ; and 
so careful are the great 
mothers and fathers, that 
even while a herd is charg- 
ing, the little ones are never 
crushed or stepped upon. 

" On the march, when 
a little elephant is born in 
a herd, they stop a day or 
two to allow it time to ex- 
ercise its little limbs and 
gain strength, and then 
they press on, the mothers 
and babies in front, the old 
tuskers following in the 
rear, but ready to rush 
forward at the first alarm. 
When rocky or hilly places 
are reached, the little ones 
are helped up by the 
mothers, who push them 
from behind and in various 
ways ; but when a river 
has to be forded or swum, a comical sight ensues. 

" The stream may be very rapid and rough, as 


the Indian rivers often are after a rain, and at such 
a place the babies would hardly be able to keep 







up with the rest ; so the mothers and fathers help 
them. At first all plunge boldly in — both young 
and old — and when the old elephants reach deep 
water, where they have to swim, the )-oung scram- 
ble upon their backs and sit astride, sometimes 
two being seen in this position. But the very 
young elephants often require a little more care and 
attention, so they are held either upon the tusks 
of the father or grasped in the trunk of the mother, 
and held over or just at the surface of the water. 
Such a sight is a curious one, to say the least — 
the great elephants almost hidden beneath the 
water, here and there a young one seemingly 
walking on the water, resting upon a submerged 
back, or held aloft while the dark waters roar 

For hundreds and hundreds of years — thousands 
even — the elephant has been trained for the use 
of man, though in those long ago times it was used 
chiefly for fighting purposes. Now, the strength 

and sagacity of the huge animal are for the most 
part employed for peaceful ends. In British Bur- 
mah, however, the British army has an elephant 
battery of twenty-two elephants. On four of the 
elephants are carried cannon ; twelve carry ammu- 
nition, four carry tools, and two are kept in reserve 
for emergencies. The elephants are as regularly 
drilled in their maneuvers as the human soldiers, 
and, it may be said, make as few mistakes. These 
elephants are also made to go through a weekly 
swimming drill ; but for this part of their duties 
they seem, strangely enough, to have a dislike. 
The mahout in consequence has very often a hard 
time of it during swimming drill ; for right in the 
midst of it an elephant may decide to consult his 
own pleasure, and will rush from the water, in 
spite of every effort of the mahout. 

The wonder is that the elephant does not oftener 
take advantage of its prodigious strength to break 
loose from its bondage. Fear of the sharp-pointed 




hook, which tlie mahout ahvays carries, is probably 
one reason for its submission ; but the habit of 
impHcit obedience which it learns has a great deal to 
do with it. If the elephant were not so trustworthy, 
its usefulness would be greatly impaired for hun- 
dreds of tasks which it now performs. This would 
be the case particularly in carrying travelers on its 
back through the forests, where the desire for 
freedom would naturally be very strong. 

Occasionally, however, an elephant will have a fit 
of bad temper, and will be as savage as if it had 
never been tamed. At such times it is securely 
chained and kept so until the fit is over. 

Few accounts of the elephant show it to be 
otherwise than gentle and kindly in disposition; 
and most persons who have had experience with 
it are enthusiastic in its praise. Mr. Forbes, for 

example, in his "Oriental Memoirs," says of his 
elephant ; 

"Nothing could exceed the sagacity, docility, 
and affection of this noble quadruped. If I stopped 
to enjoy a prospect, he remained perfectly im- 
movable until my sketch was finished. If I wished 
for ripe mangoes growing out of the common 
reach, he selected the most fruitful branch, and 
breaking it off with his trunk, gave it to his driver 
to be handed to me ; accepting of any part given 
to himself with a respectful salaam, by raising his 
trunk three times above his head in the manner 
of the Oriental obeisance, and as often did he ex- 
press his thanks by a murmuring noise. . . 

" No spaniel could be more innocent or playful, 
or fonder of those who noticed him than this docile 


By Grace Denio Litchfield. 

Children, do you ever, 
In walks by land or sea, 

Meet a little maiden 
Long time lost to me ? 

She is gay and gladsome, 

Has a laughing face, 
And a heart as sunny ; 

And her name is Grace. 

Naught she knows of sorrow. 
Naught of doubt or blight ; 

Heaven is just above her — 
All her thoughts are white. 

Longtime since I lost her, 
That other Me of mine ; 

She crossed into Time's shadow 
Out of Youth's sunshine. 

Now the darkness keeps her ; 

And call her as I will. 
The years that lie between us 

Hide her from me still. 

I am dull and pain- worn. 
And lonely as can be — 

Oh, children, if you meet her, 
Send back my other Me ! 


By Sanna Steen. 

Yonder, by the wooded hill, stands a cottage 
which has a window so small that when one sees 
therein the round, fair-curled head of a little boy, 
it fills the whole window. 

In former days the cottage had a chimney-top of 
brick, the walls were painted red, and a nice fence 
encircled the house and the small potato-field. But 
now it all looks poor — very poor. The smoke rises 
through a hole in the turf roof, and the fence has 
fallen down. This is because its only grown-up 
inmates are an old blind soldier and a wife, as old 
as himself. As neither of them could work nor 
build, they would have died of hunger if the old 
man had not employed himself by binding nets, 
and his wife made brooms, and if the parish had 
not yearly given them three barrels of corn for 

Four or five years before, it had all been much 
better. At that time there lived in the cottage, 
besides the old soldier and his wife, a young, active 
couple, — the son and the son's wife. They were 
very industrious, and there was prosperity in the 
house, until the calamity came. 

It happened one Sunday morning that the big 
church-boat, which carried the people of the ham- 
let to church, capsized in the middle of the lake dur- 
ing a squall, and the young man and his wife 
and many more people were buried in the waves. 
But the old couple had remained at home that 
day, — the old man, because of his blindness, and 
his wife to take care of a little child. While the 
bells ringing for the church service sounded across 
the lake, it was at the same time for the souls of 
those whom God had so suddenly called to an 
eternal service in heaven. 

The two old people were then left alone in the cot- 
tage with their sorrow, their poverty, and their little 
grandchild. They had now only this little boy, who 
was called Matti (Matthew) ; and, as he was so 
small, he was generally called little Matti. He was 
as round and ruddy-cheeked as a ripened apple, 
with honest blue eyes, and hair as yellow as gold, 
which was the only gold little Matti possessed in 
this world. It was his ruddy face that used to fill the 
window when there was anything remarkable going 
on in the road. 

If you have passed this place at any time you 

have surely seen him. Perhaps you passed along 
the road in a dark and raw autumn evening. You 
have then seen the fire shine bright and clear upon 
the hearth in the poor room. The blind soldier is 
binding nets, and the old wife reads aloud from 
the Bible about the poor blind human beings who 
li\e in the dark land and who shall see the shin- 
ing light. And Matti sits on the hearth-stone in 
the firelight, with the cat before him. He listens 
piously, as if he could understand very well what 
Grandmother reads, — but soon comes sweet slum- 
ber over his blue eyes, and his round red cheeks 
sink softly clown against the old woman's knee. 
And even if you were sitting in the most splendid 
carriage out there on the road, you would still look 
with joy and envy into the poor room, — for there is 
devotion and innocence ; there is the peace of simple 
faith which heals the heart's sorrows ; there is con- 
fidence in God who brings solace for all the dis- 
tress of life. This cot is rich ; do you think it 
would change its treasure for the palace's gold ? 

If you pass the same way on a summer's day, 
you will see that near the cottage there is a gate. 
You have to stop there, if nobody comes to open 
it. But wait a moment, it will not be long before 
little Matti is there ; he is already to be seen at 
the door of the cottage. He runs over stick and 
stone to reach it in good time, and his long yellow 
hair flows in the wind ; he is now at the gate. 
Have you a penny ? Do throw it to him, he expects 
it ; but take a new penny, which glitters, if you 
have one, for that is his joy. He does not know 
what the coin will buy ; a penny gives him quite 
the same delight that a dollar would. But take 
care that you do not throw the coin on the road 
before the horses and carriage have passed through 
the gate ; for as soon as he sees the coin, he throws 
himself full length upon it, and lets the gate swing 
back against the noses of the horses. Don't scold 
him for it ; when you were a little one, you were 
not a bit wiser ! 

Little Matti had hard bread and herring with 
small beer for his ever)'-day fare ; sometimes 
there was potatoes and sour milk for him, but 
they were for feast-meals ; yet he grew and throve 
on it, and was rounder each year. He could read 
nothing besides his prayers and the ten com- 



mandments ; but he could stand on his head 
where the grass was soft ; he could fish by the 
shore of the lake, when his grandmother was 
there washing his shirts ; he could drive on the 
level road, and ride his neighbors' horses to the 
watering-place, especially if some one walked by 
his side. On the snow he could distinguish grouse- 
tracks from magpie-tracks, and wolf-tracks he 
knew exceeding well. He could cut a sledge out of 
pieces of wood, and make horses and cows of pine- 
cones with small bits of wood for their feet. This 


was no one but Matti who ncitlier on Sunday no?- 
Monday had what he ought to have had, and this 
caused him at last very much affliction. 

It was long before little Matti perceived that he 
was in want of something. He walked around in 
his little shirt, as brave and glad as if superfluous 
clothes had never existed. But what happened ? 
One Sunday morning, when all the people of the 
hamlet were gathering by the shore, going to 
church, little Matti declared that he, too, would go. 
" It will not do, dear child," said his grand- 

"Why not? " said little Matti. 

"You have no clothes," said Grandmother. 

Little Matti looked very serious at this. 

" I dare say 1 

. could lend you 

one of my old 
petticoats," said 

"and matti sits om the hearth-stone in the firelight.' 

was the list of little Matti's exploits and knowl- 
edge, and this was learning enough for a little one. 
But this was not sufficient, Matti thought. He 
wanted in this world an indispensable thing. I 
don't know if I ought to talk about it — he had no 
breeches ; and there were two reasons for this. In 
the first place, his grandfather and grandmother 
were very poor ; and in the second place, it was 
most fashionable among all the small boys of the 
hamlet to go without that which little Matti was 
without. But this was mostly an every-day fash- 
ion, — it was fashionable on Sundays and feast-days 
for children to dress more like other people. There 

Grandmother ; " but then shall every one believe 
you to be a girl." 

" I will be a man," said Matti. 

"Of course," said Grandmother ; " man is man, 
if he is not bigger than a halfpenny. Stay nicely 
at home, you, my little Matti." 

And Matti staid at home this time. But it 
was not long after this that the assizes were to be 
held in the hamlet ; and this brought many people 
there, and among others came Wipplusti with his 
juggling cupboard. Every one wished to peep into 
the cupboard, because one saw there so much that 
was interesting, — Napoleon Bonaparte with his 




crown of gold and his long sword, Princess Sun- 
deguld who led the tiger, Ahriman, by a necklace, 
the hobgoblin of Abor Castle, and many wonderful 
things. Some gave j\lr. Wipplusti copper coin, 
others gave him loaves of bread, many gave him 
nothing at all; but all enjoyed themselves exult- 
antly. Little Matti heard other boys tell about 

but Matti did not answer, and when he came to 
the farm where the assizes were being held, he 
called out so loud that all could hear him: "I 
only look like a girl, I am really a man ! " 

Men and women set up a great laugh. Boys 
and girls gathered in a ring around poor Matti, 
clapping their hands and shouting ; 


this, and declared immediately that he, too, would 
go to see the juggling cupboard. 

" It will not do, dear child," said Grandmother 

" Why not?" asked Matti. 

"The judge and several other distinguished men 
are going there ; you can not possibly go without 

Little Matti struggled by himself for a time, and 
Wipplusti's dolls played in his mind. At last he 
said : 

" Will you. Grandmother, lend me a petticoat ? " 

"There it is," said Grandmother, and laughed 
aloud when the little one staggered across the 
floor in the big petticoat. 

"Do I look like a girl?" he asked; "if so, 1 
shall not go. I am not a girl, I am a man." 

" You surely look rather like a girl," said Grand- 
mother; "but you must tell everyone you pass 
that you are a man." 

"That is what I can do," thought little Matti, 
and so v/ent off. 

On the road he met a traveler, who stopped 
and said : 

" Little girl, can you tell me where the assizes 
are to be held ? " 

" I am not girl, I am a inan," said Matti. 

" You don't look like one," said the gentleman, 

" Nay, look at little Mary ! Where did you get 
such pretty clothes?" 

" It is Grandmother's petticoat, and not mine," 
said Matti. " I am not Mary ! I am little Matti, 
and that you can well see." 

The biggest and worst of the boys then took 
Matti upon his shoulder and carried him forth to 
the juggling cupboard, and shouted out over the 
whole place : 

" Who would look at a halfpenny fellow ? Who 
would look at a man in petticoats ? " 

Matti got angry and pulled the boy's hair with 
all his might. 

" It is not my petticoat ; it belongs to my grand- 
mother ! " he called, and soon he began to weep. 

The bad comrade was going on, " Who will look 
at a man in petticoats ? " and so went on all around 
the assize-place, — the boy shouting out and Matti 
pulling him by the hair and weeping. He had 
never had this kind of conveyance before. 

He wept, he scratched, he struggled, and when 
at last he broke away, he ran as swiftly as he could, 
but stumbled in the petticoat, crawled up again, 
ready to weep, and again stumbled, and so, out of 
breath and weeping bitterly, he at last came home 
to his grandmother. 

"Take the petticoat away," he said; "I will 
have no petticoat, I am a man." 




" Don't weep, my Matti," said Grandmother, 
soothingly; "when you are big, you shall show 
that you are a man as good as any other." 

"Yes," said Grandfather; "and next time I 
shall lend you my trousers. " 

The old grandparents were so devotedly attached 
to Matti, — he was their only comfort here on 
earth, — that they would have given him velvet 
breeches embroidered with gold, if it had been in 
their power. 

Then Matti had a slice of bread and butter, and 
with that his sorrow passed. He sat down in a 
corner of the room and thought no more about 
his troubles. 

Some time after this there was gayety in the 
hamlet. The road was in a cloud of dust with the 
driving and running, because a man of rank, who 
was traveling through the country, was expected ; 
and he was, one said, of rank near the King. All 
the people of the hamlet wished to have a look at 
him, and strange things were related of him. 

" He drives in a golden carriage with twelve 
horses," said one. "He is dressed from head to 

which he was going to fling out on the road for 
the children. This rumor reached Matti's ears 
also, and he declared immediately that he, too, 
must go to see the great man. He had already a 
little will of his own, — and he was Grandfather's 
and Grandmother's darling. 

" How can you go? " said Grandfather, laugh- 
ing slyly. "Perhaps you will have Grandmother's 
petticoat once more ! " 

"I will have no petticoats!" cried Matti, 
turning as red as a lobster, when he remembered 
all the disgrace he had suffered for the sake of 
that woolen skirt. " I will never more in my life 
put on a petticoat. 1 am going to have Grand- 
father's trousers." 

" Come along, follow me to the loft ; then shall 
we see how the trousers suit you," said Grand- 

Who was so glad as Matti then ? He ran 
like a cat up the ladder to the loft, so that the 
poor blind Grandfather could hardly follow ///;//. 
So he reached the big green-painted chest, which 
stood far back in the corner of the loft, and for 



foot in silver and sheet armor." They mentioned 
the finest things they knew or could imagine. 

But the little children had their own thoughts, — 
they imagined that the gentleman would carry a 
knapsack filled with trinkets and liquorice-sticks 
Vol. XV.— 4. 

which Matti had always had great respect when 
he had been in the loft to set mouse-traps. 

The first thing which struck the little boy's eyes 
was a big sword with a glittering sheath. 

" That I will have ! " he cried. 



"Ah, pooh, pooh!" said Grandfather, "hold 
the sword while I get the uniform out of the 

Matti took the sword ; and it was so heavy that 
he was hardly able to lift it. 

Grandfather patted him on his cheek kindly. 

"When you become a man," he said, "per- 
haps it may be that you will carry a sword and be 
allowed to fight for your native country. Will you 
do that, Matti? " 

" Yes," said the little lad, and straightened 
himself bravely ; " 1 shall cut the heads off of 
every one." 

" Oh, that depends on whom you are fighting 

" I shall cut off the heads of the wolves, and 
the hawks, and the nettles, and of every one who 
behaves badly to Grandfather and Grandmother. 
Yes, Grandfather, and I shall also cut off the 
heads of all those who call me a girl — " 

"You must practice gentleness and not be 
cruel, my Matti, — but here, we have the trousers ; 
I suppose you must have the coat, too." 

" Yes, Grandfather, and the sword, too, and the 
hat, too." 

"Sir, have you any more commands?" said 





Grandfather. " Well, you shall have all these 
things on the condition that you don't go farther 
away than the gate when the gentleman comes." 
" Yes, Grandfather." 

The two were scarcely down from the loft 
before the coroner came rushing like a tempest 
along the road and cried, " To the right ! " and 
" To the left ! " ineaning that the people must 
draw themselves aside, because now, in a few 
minutes, the honorable gentleman was coming. 

Now, there was hurry everywhere, and also 
in the cottage. Matti dressed in Grandfather's 
trousers, which were gray with blue stripes, and 
so wide and big that all of Matti could easily have 
crept into one of the legs. Below, the half of 
the legs had to be turned up ; and above, they 
had to be . tied up with a handkerchief under 
his arms. There was quite as much difficulty 
with the coat, which looked as if it had been 
made for a giant. When he put it on, the sleeves 
and the skirts swept the ground. 

" That will never do," 
said Grandmother ; and she 
pinned up the sleeves as well 
as the skirts. 

Matti thought all these 
arrangements unnecessary. 

Now, they put on him the 
big soldier hat, which would 
have fallen down over his 
little face to his shoulders, if 
it had not been half filled 
with hay. Last of all, he had 
the heavy sword ; and so was 
the little knight ready. 

Never had any hero return- 
ing as a victor from battle 
been as proud as was Matti 




that first time he put on trousers. All his round 
little figure disappeared in those big wide clothes, 
like a fish in an ocean ; and his grandparents saw 
nothing but the blue, honest eyes, the ruddy cheeks, 
and the small snub nose peeping out from the 
narrow space between the coat-collar and the hat. 
And then, when he marched out, stately and well 
equipped, they heard the sword drag against the 
small stones ; the pins dropped out, so that the 
sleeves and skirts took care of themselves ; the hat 
made a lurch, now to the right, now to the left; 
and the whole brave knight seemed at every step 
as if he was going to fall down under the burden 
of his heroic courage. 

The old couple had not for a long time laughed 
so heartily as they laughed then. Grandfather, 
who could hear well enough, but could see nothing 
of Matti's equipment, wheeled the boy around 
three times at least, kissed the small nose and said, 
" God bless you, little Matti ! May never a worse 
fellow than you wear a Bjorneborgerne's * old uni- 
form. Take care that you do honor to the governor 
when he arrives." And then he taught the little 
one to stand as stiff as a stick, and to look very 
austere, the left arm by his side, and to raise the 
right hand to the forehead in saluting. 

Scarcely was Matti at his post by the gate, 
before the Governor approached, driving rapidly. 
He had heard the horses' speed slackened, and the 
driver call out, " Open the gate quickly!" 

It so happened that the coroner, in his own high 
person, had placed himself by the gate, to take 
care that everything should go well, and that the 
gate should be opened at given signal. This would 
give the Governor a very good idea of the excellent 
order along the roads, he thought. But when the 
carriage approached with the rapidity of lightening, 
it happened that the coroner endeavored to bow 
most humbly ; and unfortunately in doing so, he 
fell into the wet ditch by the roadside. 

The under-coroner, who was waiting by the 
gate for the word of command, when he saw his 
master tumble, was so confused that he never 
thought of opening the gate without his superior's 
command ; and so the gate remained shut. 

The carriage was now compelled to stop ; the 
gentleman looked out in surprise, and the driver 
kept calling out, " Open the gate !" 

Then little Matti took courage and stepped for- 
ward — though with much trouble — opened the 
gate, and made the salute just as Grandfather had 
taught him, almost like a trained dog who has 
learned to sit erect. The driver cracked the whip, 
the horses started, but at the same moment, the 
gentleman called out : 

" Stop ! " 

The carriage stopped for the second time. 

* Bjomeborg is a 

" What little figure is this in a Bjorneborgerne's 
uniform ? " the gentleman called out to Matti, 
and laughed so heartily that the carriage almost 

Matti did not understand ; he remembered only 
what Grandfather had told him, and he made once 
more a soldier-like salute, as stiff and as solemn 
as possible. The gentleman was still more amused 
by this, and asked the people standing by about 
the boy's parents. 

The coroner, who had by this time crawled out 
of the ditch, hastened to relate that the boy was 
an orphan, who lived with his grandfather, a poor 



bUnd soldier of the name of Hug. The coroner 
said this in that contemptuous way which some- 
times is used when a dignified functionary speaks 
about paupers in the parish. But his surprise was 
great when he saw the gentleman immediately step 
out of the carriage, and go straight to the cottage. 

Grandmother was so astonished that she nearly 
tumbled from her chair, when the gentleman step- 
ped in ; but Grandfather, who could see nothing, 
had more courage, and politely pointed to where 
he knew the bench was. " Peace be with you, my 
friends," said the gentleman, as he shook hands 
heartily with the old people. " It seems to me, I 
should know you, old fellow," he went on, while 
he looked hard at the Grandfather. " Is it not 
Hug, No. 39 of my old company ? " 

" My good captain ! " answered Grandfather, in 
great surprise, for he knew the voice. 

"Now, thank Heaven that I have found you 
at last!" said the gentleman. "Have you for- 
gotten that it was you, who in the heat of a bat- 
tle once carried me on your shoulders and forded 
the stream with me, when I was wounded and 
faint, and had nearly fallen into the hands of the 
enemy? And if you have forgotten it, do you 
think that I ever should be able to forget it ? Since 

town in Finland. 





the peace, I have heard nothing of you; I have vainly 
sought you for a long time, and at last I thought 
you must be dead. But now I have found you, and 
I must take good care of you, and your wife, and 
your little boy — and a fine boy he is." With 
these words, he seized Matti under the arms, lifted 
him up and kissed him so energetically, that the 
lad dropped his hat, the sword clanked, and the 
rest of Grandmother's pins fell from the coat as 
well as from the trousers. 

"Now, don't do that! let me alone!" said 
Matti; "you have made the hat fall on the floor 
now, and Grandfather is getting angry." 

" Dear, gracious sir," said Grandmother, quite 
ashamed of Matti's talking so; "be good enough 
not to mind the boy's impatience — he is, alas, not 
at all accustomed to intercourse with people." 

" Grandfather shall have a better hat than this 
one," said the gentleman to Matti ; " and you, 
dear old woman, be easy on account of the boy's 
wrath ; it is rather good that he is a spirited little 
fellow. Listen, Matti. It seems to me that you 
are going to be a clever man. Have you a mind 
to be a brave soldier like Grandfather?" 

"Grandfather says that it depends on whom I 
fight against," said Matti. 

"You are a smart boy," said the gentleman, 
" and you are not at all lacking in courage." 

"Ay, sir; that is because to-day is the first time 
little Matti has worn trousers, and the courage is 
with the trousers," said Grandfather. 

" Say, rather, it is the Bjorneborgerne's uni- 
form," said the gentleman. "There is the smell 
of gunpowder, and much honor left in this worn 
uniform, and such memories pass from one gener- 
ation to another. But now we have a new time 
coming, and the boy shall learn to be a defender 
of the Fatherland. Are you strong, little man?" 

Matti did not answer, he only held out his right 
third finger to try its strength with the noble 

"1 can see that you are," said the gentleman; 
" and when your arm has grown, you will be as 
strong as a bear. Will you come home and stay 
with me, and eat white bread, and drink milk 
every day ? And may be, there will be, besides, 
some cakes and liquorice to be had now and then, 
if you are a good boy." 

"Am I to have a horse to ride on?" asked 

" Of course," said the gentleman. 

Matti was very thoughtful for a time, his blue 
eyes wandered from the stranger to Grandfather, 
from Grandfather to Grandmother, and from 
Grandmother back again to the gentleman. At 
last he crept behind his grandparents, and said : 




'■ I will stay with Grandfather and Grand- 
mother. " 

"But, dear Matti," said the bhnd soldier, in 
heartfelt emotion, " here, by your grandfather, you 
only get hard bread, and salt herrings, and water. 
Don't you hear that the kind sir otters you fresh 
bread and milk, and other good things, and do you 
hear that you are going to have a horse to ride ? " 

"I will stay with Grandfather; I will not go," 
Matti called out, while the tears almost rushed to 
his eyes. 

" You are a good boy," said the gentleman, with 
tears in his eyes, and he patted the little one on 
his round cheek. " Do stay with your Grand- 
father, and I shall take care that neither Grand- 
father, Grandmother, nor you, shall ever suffer 
want ; and when you are grown up, and a bold 
fellow, you must come to me, if I am alive, and 
I will give you land to plow, and forest to hew ; 

and whether you are farmer, or soldier, that is all 
the same, if you are an honest and faithful son of 
your Fatherland. Will you be that, Matti? " 

" Yes," said the boy, stiff and erect. 

" God bless you, child ! " said the grandparents 
with prayerful hearts. 

" And God bless our dear Fatherland and give 
it many faithful sons like you, dear little Matti," 
added the gentleman. " There are many children 
who run away from the hard bread, and grasp 
after the fresh buns ; and what do they gain by it ? 
Their Fatherland does not gain by it. ' Honor thy 
father and thy mother in their poverty, that it may 
be well with thee, and thou may'st live long in the 

" That is printed in my good book," said little 

' ' Yes ; but it is not written in every one's heart, " 
said the gentleman. 




Bv Annie Howells Frechette. 

It was quite in keeping with the rest of her mis- 
fortunes that she had been named Juno ; it was 
one of the man)' indignities that had been heaped 
upon her. And the name was always repeated 
with a laugh or a jeer whenever any one made poor 
Juno's acquaintance, — there was so little that was 
goddess-like about her. She had nothing under 
the sun in common with the Queen of Olym- 
pus, save that at her birth she seemed to have been 
intrusted to the Seasons as her sole attendants, for 
no mortal ever felt called upon to bestow any 
attention upon her. 

When I first saw her, she looked around the 
corner of the barn at me with a pair of soft, big, 
good-natured eyes, which shone under a bulging, 
bull-like forehead. — Have I said that Juno was a 
calf? And a more neglected, unkempt, and gen- 
erally disheveled calf never scampered over a Vir- 
ginia farm — and that is saying a great deal. 

We had gone to the pasture to look at the 
pretty Jersey calves, which crowded about us and 
allowed their glossy sides to be stroked. 

" But that is not a Jersey?" I said, pointing to 
the shaggy, half-grown black heifer which came 
cautiously up to us, prepared either to be petted 
or chased away. 

" Oh, no; that is only Juno," was the answer, 
quickly followed by a wail of indignation from my 
hostess as she caught sight of a rose-branch dang- 
ling from the calf's tail. "Juno, you wretched 
beast, you have been in the garden again ! " 

Juno could n't deny it, and only gave a gruff, 
though not an impertinent, " b-a-a-h ! " and scam- 
pered away to the farther end of the pasture, 
whence she regarded us inquisitively. 

" Is she, like the Juno of old, fond of ' dittany, 
poppies, and lilies? ' " 1 asked. 

" She is fond of everything that can be eaten, 
from warm mush-and-milk down to arctic over- 
shoes," was the despairing reply. "To be sure, 
her appetite has its reason for being, for 1 don't 
think that poor Juno has ever seen the time when 
her stomach was really full. When she was a 
little calf, the black woman we had to look after 
the cows said that calves needed very little atten- 
tion, consequently she was brought up on darkey 

principles. Then when these little aristocrats," — ca- 
ressing the Jerseys, — " came along, we had a well- 
trained Scotch lassie who would have gone without 
her own supper rather than have let them go with- 
out theirs. But it was too late for Juno to profit 
by the new regime, for with Scotch thrift she said 
Juno was too old to be treated like ' the wee bit 
calfies,' and she chased the poor animal out of 
the calf-pen. 

"Then poor Juno tried to pretend she was a cow, 
and slipped into the cowyard when the bran-mash 
was passed around. But this was looked upon as 
little less than highway robbery by the immigrant 
from the ' Banks o' Dee,' and the pretender was 
belabored out for a ' thieving beastie, trying to tak' 
fro' the poor coos what they needed to keep up 
their milk wi'.' So, you see, Juno has not always 
had a bed of roses to rest on, though she has just 
come off one." 

As we turned to go back to the house, two bright- 
haired little people who had stood beside us, drink- 
ing in the story of Juno, clamored to be allowed 
to stay and have a romp with the pretty, fawn-like 
creatures about them. They were popped through 
the bars by an indulgent aunt, and allowed to peel 
off shoes and stockings by an almost equally indul- 
gent mamma, and left to lilt and caper the shining 
spring morning away on the tender green grass. 

When they came in at noon, warm and tired, 
they were followed at a respectful distance by Juno. 
We were rather touched by her devotion, and put 
it down to an affectionate nature. Its real cause 
came out, that night, when the small people were 
being put to bed. Then " Sister,"a young woman 
of seven, and " Brother," a man of six, seemed 
loath to enter the mysterious land of dreams until 
they had unburdened their souls by a confession. 
It began with : 

"Good-night, Mamma!" 

" Good-night, and pleasant dreams." 

"Are you going downstairs at once, Alamma?" 

"Yes; good-night again." 

"Just wait a minute, please," and a hurried 
consultation was held in a whisper, of which I 
caught " No, you tell. Sister; you 're the oldest." — 
" No, j/ou tell, Brother, you make things sound so 



well, you know." — "Ah, no, Sister, you." Where- 
upon I brought things to a crisis by asking what 
they wished to tell. 

" We wanted to know what stealing is." 

" Why, it 's taking what does not belong to 

"Well, is all stealing very bad?" asked Sister, 
sitting up in bed. 

" Yes, is it all very bad ? "echoed Brother, who, 
being merely a substantial shadow to Sister, also 
sat up. "Would you call taking Grandpapa's 
things stealing ? " 

" Of course." 

" Oh-h ! " looking uneasily at each other. 

"Why do you ask?" 

" We did n't know — we thought — we — Brother, 
yoti explain," and Sister lay back on her pillow in 
desperation. He came boldly up to the mark. 
"You see, Mamma, we felt sorry for poor Juno, 
and Sister said to me, ' Let 's make a party for 
Juno'; and I said, ' Say we do'; and Sister and 1 
went to the barn, and Juno, she walked after us, 
so nice and polite. Mamma, and we put her into 
Jim's stall, and gave her some oats and corn with 
some salt sprinkled on it, and we found some meal, 
and made her some porridge in a bucket, and we 
set it outside, 'cause Sister said it would cook in 
the sun, but Juno did n't wait for it to cook. She 
just gobbled it up, and she was so gla-d! " and his 
eyes sparkled at the remembrance of the satisfac- 
tion. " If she had n't been quite so greedy, though, 
she 'd have had it better, for we were going to trim 
the bucket with sweet-potato vines." 

" To make it look hke salad," explained Sister. 

" Surely, surely, you would not have taken vines 
from Grandpapa's hot-bed ! If you had, he 'd have 
been sorry that I brought you to visit him. About 
Juno's party — you '11 have to tell him in the morn- 
ing, and ask him to excuse you." 

" D'you think he '11 be very mad ? " they asked, 
solemnly. "Won't you just mention it to him 
when you go downstairs, now ? You know him 
so well." 

The next morning there was a session in the 
library, with closed doors. But I fancy there was 
not a terrible scene, for when I "mentioned it" 
to Grandpapa the night before, he shut one eye 
and shook with silent laughter. When the door 
opened, and the three emerged, there was still 
a judicial air hanging about Grandpapa, while 
the babies looked as if their little souls had been 
swept and garnished for the day. As they parted. 
Grandpapa said, "But, remember, as a punishment, 
you are to take care of Juno and keep her out of 
mischief while you are here ; and," tapping his left 
palm with his right forefinger, "she is not to 
have a taste of sweet-potato vines." 

" No, m-deed, dear Grandpapa." 

Nothing could be easier than to promise to keep 
Juno out of mischief, but they soon found it a very 
difficult promise to fulfill. She was large enough r 
to jump out of the calf-pen, and small enough to 
squirm through the pasture fence. She got into 
the chicken-yard, and galloped around, scaring 
the hens off their nests, and almost throwing the 
old turkey gobbler into a fit of apoplexy by bellow- 
ing whenever he gave vent to his natural wrath 
by gobbling. She enticed the Jersey calves into 
the wheat-fields of an adjoining farm (and made 
no end of trouble for her owner), took them for a 
stroll along the railroad track, and only brought 
them back when night and hunger overtook them, 
and when all the tired men and boys on the farm 
had gone to look for them. Her air, as she ap- 
peared over the brow of some old earthworks, with 
the calves at her heels, was that of innocence and 
uprightness, and seemed to say, " But for me 
these inexperienced young creatures might never 
have found their way home." 

After this last escapade, Juno was given up to 
final disgrace by all but her two little friends. She 
was made to wear a poke, and her usual calfish 
joy was so overcast by gloom that she only had 
spirit enough left to gnaw the bark off the young 
trees in her prison. Evidently her friends hated 
the poke as cordially as she did. And if we all 
had not been absorbed in our own unimportant 
affairs, we might have seen that a revolution was 

Juno looked forlornly out from her prison pen, 
and Sister and Brother scampered in wild freedom 
over the farm, for they were at liberty to take their 
luncheon and be gone all day, — only they were 
enjoined to begin their homeward march when 
the whistle from the five o'clock express shrieked 
through the valley. 

One morning, as we afterward remembered, an 
unusually large luncheon was asked for, and there 
was a great deal of flitting in and out of the barn 
before they, with their little express wagon, dis- 
appeared through the vineyard in the direction of 
the woods. 

The sweet spring day wore away, and we were 
sitting under the china-tree, enjoying the delicious 
change from afternoon warmth to the coolness of 
evening, when Grandpapa suddenly rose, looked 
about him, and asked, " Where are the children? 
It is time they were at home." 

The golden glow of coming sunset, which had 
seemed so beautiful but that moment to their 
Mamma, turned to a cold gray mist, as she rose 
quickly and looked in the direction where the two 
loved little forms and the squeaking express wagon 
had disappeared so many hours before. 




" They ought to be here," said she. " It 's after 
six o'clock. They never failed to obey the whistle 

"Oh, well," Grandpapa answered re-assuringly, 
'• they 've not heard it to-day. They 're probably 
hunting arrow-heads, or have made some won- 
derful discovery, or are down on the low grounds 
gathering cresses, and think it 's only noon. How- 
ever, as it is getting late enough for them to be at 
home, I '11 walk down that way and get them." 

" And I '11 go to the pasture ; they may be 
playing with Juno," said Aunt Sie. 

" And 1 '11 run across to Mrs. Brown's ; perhaps 
Sol Brown has coaxed them over there," said Aunt 

" Well, I '11 go on the upper porch and have a 
look over the farm, and if I don't see them, I '11 
take a run through the vineyard ; they often hunt 
for arrow-heads there," and, as she spoke, the 
mother tried to believe she did n't feel cold around 
the heart. 

Each started off \\'ith alacrity, for there are times 
when it is a greater relief to frightened people to 
part company than to stay together. 

When she reached the poixh, which commanded 
a view of the lo\ely landscape for miles around, 
she saw nothing but Grandpapa entering the woods 
in the hollow. Aunt Sie hastening to the pasture, 
and Aunt Lishie taking the shortest possible cut 
to Mrs. Brown's. The clear air seemed to ring, 
and yet to be horribly silent. There came the boys 
up from the cornfield, each riding a mule. Perhaps 
in another moment she would see a yellow head 
bobbing up and down behind. But no, the children 
were not enjoying the pleasure of a mule ride — 
they were nowhere to be seen. She hurried down- 
stairs to question the boys as they passed, who, in 
reply, assured her that they had not seen the 
children that day. She made a quick search of the 
chicken-coop and hayloft before running hither 
and thither in the vineyard on the hillside. Once 
or twice she was sure she heard them, but, when she 
stopped to listen, she found that it was only the 
boys talking at the well as they watered their mules. 
At last she went back to the house and waited. 

One after another the scouts came in ; when the 
last arrived alone, at seven o'clock, she broke down 
entirely and cried in earnest. 

"There, there, don't be frightened," said her 
father; " nothing can have happened; there is n't 
a dangerous place on the farm. But I '11 start the 
boys out, for I feel anxious to get the little ones 
in before it grows damp. And it just occurs to me 
that they may be at the blacksmith's ; I '11 step 
across and see," and he stepped off with a brisk- 
ness that would have done credit to a man twenty- 
five years younger. 

The aunties and mother by this time felt the 
need of companionship, and went in a group to 
the darkening woods, where they shouted as loudly 
as their broken voices would allow. At one place 
the pasture touched the woods, and here they 
made a discovery. The bars were down ; and 
when they looked at the cows waiting at the milk- 
ing-shed, Juno, who of late had affected their so- 
ciety, was not with them. 

"Juno is out, and they are probably trying to 
drive her home," cried Aunt Sie. " The dear 
little souls ! " 

" The little angels ! " sobbed Aunt Lishie. 

"The dear, care-worn little creatures! Oh, 
that miserable beast, 1 never want to see her 
again," wailed their mamma, who little knew how 
glad the sight of Juno would make her. 

A little further on they found the prints of small 
bare feet, half-obliterated by hoof-marks. 

"They have been here, but where are they 
now ? " 

Ah, yes, where ? 

It was undeniably dark in the woods. Outside, 
the full moon looked down on the lonesome, empty 
fields. They could not bear to look at it, for was n't 
there "the man in the moon" with whom those 
blessed lost babies believed themselves on such 
friendly terms? Oh, if he loved them as well as 
they believed he did, would he, ah, would he, please 
keep an eye on them, and guide them safely back ! 

The horror of the dark woods was too much for 
the three wretched women, and they kept on its 
outskirts, like the whip-poor-wills which now and 
then broke the awesome silence. 

Presently they came in sight of a dilapidated 
old cabin which had formed part of the " quarters " 
in slavery times. 

"Do you suppose they could be there?" 

"No, I 'm afraid not; they believe the three 
bears live in it, so I don't think they would venture 
in," answered Mamma. 

The memory of the dear imaginative little ones, 
whom she now thought she would never again see, 
crushed her. She sank down, and her face was 

" Oh, my darlings, my darlings ! " 


Her sisters clutched her, and dragged her to 
her feet. 

" It is, it is Juno ! " 

Once more the silence was broken by that voice — 
sweeter now to them than any trill of mocking- 
bird or prima donna. This time it took on an 
inquiring tone. 


" She 's in the cabin ! " they all exclaimed. 

The moon was shining brightly upon the square 




opening which had served as a window ; and framed 
in it upon a background of inner darkness tliey 
beheld the classic head of Juno. 

" Don't let us hope too much, they may not be 
with her. It would kill me not to find them now," 
quavered Mamma, as they hurried forward. 

In a moment they were at the door, and a glad 
shout pierced the still evening, and reached poor 
Grandpapa, as he stood " completely whipped 
out," as he afterward confessed, not knowing 
which way to turn next. 

The cabin was divided into two rooms, and in 

kindly permitted the aunts to carry their precious 
ones, while she led Juno by the poke), that feeling 
that Juno was not happy with her poke, and not 
well treated, they had decided to take her and 
live in the cabin, which, after many cautious sur- 
veys from safe distances, they had concluded was 
not the home of the bears. They had provided a 
load of meal for her, and a good luncheon for them- 
selves ; and they had intended to live on straw- 
berries and water. They were "terribly tired." 
They had worked hard all day gathering moss to 
make themselves a bed. After putting Juno into 


the outer one gleamed the light clothing of two 
little sleepers. The suddenness with which they 
were snatched from slumber caused a wail from 
Brother, " It 's the bears. Sister, it's the three bears 
come home." And in truth the hugs to which 
they were treated quite carried out the bear idea. 

It seemed as if the supply of tears ought to have 
been exhausted, but it was not, only now they were 
what the children called " fun tears," because 
they came from laughing. 

Questions were asked and the answers were not 
even waited for. The sleepy little ones were 
rather vague, but it was gathered during the trium- 
phal homeward march (upon which Mamma 

her room, they had lain down to try theirs, and 
had gone to sleep before dark. They were per- 
fectly willing to go home, especially Brother, who 
had his own opinion about whip-poor-wills. 

Grandpapa met them when half-way to the 
house, and as he gathered them both into loving 
arms, he was greeted with, "You W!// take off 
poor Juno's poke, won't you dear Grandpapa ? " 

Juno was urged to eat when she got home, and 
although she had fared sumptuously all day, she 
consented to worry down a little warm bran 

Juno has ceased to be a calf, and we now ten- 
derly allude to her as the Sacred Cow. 


(A Triu Story.) 

By Diogenes Tube. 


Miss Alcott, in "Jo's Boys," has devoted a 
chapter to the trials and tribulations of an author- 
ess persecuted by a legion of curiosity-seekers and 
autograph-hunters. She has told of the many and 
ingenious means resorted to by this class of people 
to obtain a memento or a signature from a popu- 
lar writer ; but until this story was written she 
never knew how her own autograph was obtained 
on one occasion by two of her little admirers. 

Agnes and Marie Chester, like most American 
girls, were assiduous readers of St. NICHOLAS. It 
was in its pages they had read several of Miss Al- 
cott's works, and to them the boys and girls created 
by the pen of this gifted writer were no fictitious 
characters. They were creatures of flesh and blood, 
whose individual characteristics were as firmly 
impressed upon the minds of our little heroines as 
were those of any of their most intimate plaj-mates. 
To them Miss Alcott was a species of divinity who 
held the power to make or mar the lives of the 

young creatures whose histories she 
recorded. With one fell swoop of her 
pen she could, if she felt so disposed, 
take the life of a favorite heroine, or 
"make a story end wrong." What 
wonder, then, that their affection for 
their divinity should be tempered with 
a certain awe. 

Agnes and Marie were the youngest 

of a family of seven children, and, 

their mother having died when they 

;, were still quite young, they had been 

L^l_^ accustomed to look upon their sister 

'"■ J Dora, who was several years their 

senior, as a second mother, and to 

defer to her judgment in those matters which 

did not call for the intervention of the father's 


Now, it so happened that " Rose in Bloom," 
the sequel to " Eight Cousins," was not pub- 
lished in serial form, like its predecessor. 
When the book appeared, Dora read it, and 
Agnes and Marie were anxious to do the same. 
Mr. Chester was temporarily out of town, however ; 
and in his absence Dora hesitated to let the younger 
girls read the book, fearing that her father might 
possibly object to placing it in their hands, owing 
to the fact that it contained several love episodes. 
She therefore refused Iier permission, much to the 
discomfiture of our little heroines, who rose in open 
revolt against their sister's decision. They entreat- 
ed, argued, wheedled, and threatened, by turns, 
but all in vain. Dora remained firm in her deci- 
sion, and the book was securely locked up in her 
bureau drawer. 

The young rebels threatened to capture that 
book, by hook or by crook, if they had to pick the 
lock, or even to blow up the bureau with dynamite; 
and they racked their brains to discover some 
means of executing their mutinous purpose. 

They had a firm ally in their brother Will, who 
had not the boyish contempt for girls which some 
brothers of his age affect. 

Master Will was no less a personage than the 
editor-in-chief of a weekly publication entitled 
Scraps, of which Agnes and Marie composed the 
rest of the editorial staff. Scraps was an influ- 
ential organ among its readers, who, by the way, 
were just three in number, including the staff. It 
did not appear in printed form, but was issued in 




manuscript, and its columns abounded witli notes 
and comments on all the important events which 
occurred throughout that portion of the universe 
comprised in the Chester household. 

You should have seen the issue which appeared 
after Dora's decision had been made known ! 

The "leader" on the editorial page was devoted 
to a learned argument, bristling with precedents 
and authorities, to prove that the decision was 
"barbarous, unreasonable, cruel, and unjust." 
Then came paragraphs at intervals, with startling 
head-lines, and teeming with bitter irony and caus- 
tic sarcasm. There were even pathetic verses like 
the folio win sr : 

and this : 

' I think it 's mean that * Rose in Bloom ' 
Is locked up in my sister's room," 

To Dora. 

" When I am dead, 
And in my tomb, 
You 'II wish I 'd read 
' The Rose in Bloom ! ' 

And then the cartoon, — well, here is the cartoon 
just as it appeared in Scraps : 

morning, " I am just going to write to Miss Alcott 
and ask her if she did n't intend ' Rose in Bloom ' 
for girls of our age as much as ior young ladies of 

This was said with a contemptuous emphasis 
on the words "young ladies," which expressed 
volumes of unspoken scorn. 

Will shook his head. 

"No, that won't do," said he, doubtfully; 
"Miss Alcott would n't answer your letter. Do 
you suppose she has nothing else to do but to 
answer little girls' letters ? Why, if she were to 
answer all the letters she receives, she would n't 
have any time left in which to write her books. 
We must think of some other plan, for that won't 
do, I tell you." 

And the editor-in-chief again shook his head in 
disapproval of the proposal of the junior member 
of his staff. 

But the words were hardly out of his mouth, 
when he surprised his reporters by executing a 
series of fantastic steps over the chairs and furni- 
ture, giving vent the while to unearthly chuckles 
and triumphant yells which fairly shook the house. 

^■^^^ <^ ^^^cC / yi.irv^^'i-^ ^Ae-t'-^'iZJe-W'^ . 

/yKti/~,^ ^•cc^i.'X.Aje^ ^^ 7^. '^cnr^^ 

This issue of Scraps was sent to Dora, as you 
may believe, but even this formidable array of 
logic, pathos, ridicule, and abuse left the young 
lady unmoved ; and still the book remained safely 
locked up in the bureau drawer. 

So much for the vaunted power of the press ! 

" Well, I don't care ! " exclaimed Marie, one 

" Good gracious ! " exclaimed Agnes, " what on 
earth is the matter with you now, Will? " 

" Oh ! I 'm all right ! " rejoined Will. " I was 
just thinking that Marie's idea is a first-rate one, 
after all. Write to Miss Alcott, by all means." 

"But I thought you said we wouldn't receive 
any answer," objected Agnes. 





'■ Well, I 've changed my mind. Now, I know 
your letter will be answered. I am just as sure of 
it as that your name is Agnes Chester." 

"But how do you know ? " inquired Marie. 

"Never mind, now," retorted Will. "Just go 
and write your letter, and you will find 
out in good time." 

Whereupon Agnes and Marie sat 
down, and, after several unsuccessful 
attempts, they managed to produce a 
letter which they passed to Will for 
his approval. 

Will read it critically. 

"Well," said he, "it is rather 
long ; however, I suppose it will do, 
as Miss Alcott will never see it." 

"Never see it?" exclaimed the 
two girls together. 

" Don't ask questions," Will re- 
marked, sententiously, "but you, 
Agnes, bring me the ' Eight Cousins ' 
from the library table, while Marie 
gets me a sheet of tracing paper which she will find 
in my desk." 

When the desired articles were brought, Will 
opened the volume of the "Eight Cousins" at the 
page which is inserted between the title-page and 
the preface, containing the fac-simile of Miss 
Alcott's writing shown above. 

"Now," said he, 
"Miss Alcott will re- 
ply to your letter. " 

Then, after carefully 
studying the fac-simile. 
Will laboriously com- 
posed the following 
note : 

capital letters, and no figures whatever, so that I 
am unalale to date my letter ; and I have been 
obliged to guess at the 7', ?;, and/. However, either 
1 am much mistaken, or this letter will produce 
the desired effect. Now, then, to transfer this to a 


i:„ ^v. 

sheet of note-paper. I have an odd sheet in my 
writing-desk, which is unlike any that we have in 
the house. Of course, it would not do for Dora 
to recognize the note-paper." 

So saying. Will procured the sheet in question, 
and placing a sheet of carbon paper upon it, he 
proceeded to transfer his note. He then went 

(^vjL-cx-w- \>J';;)^LSLa_ 

-vv — r — "Onj"' 

J )wL- Aj-cj-o-Hr^'- 



The book was written for all my 
boy and girl friends : it is best, 
however, to be guided by your 
sister's judgment, truly your 
friend, L. M. Alcott." 

This done, he placed 
his tracing paper over 
the fac-simile of Miss 
Alcott's writing, and 
traced letter after let- 
ter until he had pro- 
duced the result here 

"There," he exclaimed; "of course, an expert 
could tell that is n't genuine, but it is near enough, 
I think, to deceive Dora. I have n't been able 
to say just what 1 wanted, because this fac-simile 
is so short that it does not contain all the let- 
ters of the alphabet. It has only four kinds of 

oUi_ c)^ ^^^~^ H- o-^-v/^^ /i v4 vL^v^ 

over his work with pen and ink, and at last con- 
templated the finished letter. 

Agnes and Marie had followed his every opera- 
tion with intense interest, and expressed their 
satisfaction at the result. 

"But," objected Agnes, "is not this a forgery ? " 



"Well," said Will, "I suppose it is; but it is 
only to be used as a joke, you know, for of course 
we will tell Dora what it is, just as soon as you 
receive the book." 

" But," said Marie, " 1 don't believe Dora will let 
us read the book even now ; for the note advises us 
to be guided by her judgment, and she will hold 
this up to us." 

"Oh, you goosey! "exclaimed Will; " that is just 
the very reason Dora will let you read the book. 
Don't you see the note says plainly enough that 
the story was written for girls of your age, just as 
well as for older girls. You don't suppose Miss 
Alcott would write you not to mind what your 
sister said, but to do just as you pleased, do you ? 
If 1 had written that, Dora would have seen at 
once that the note was n't genuine. You just wait." 

The next day, after Agnes and Marie had left 
for school, Dora found an envelope on her dress- 
ing-table, bearing her name. It inclosed two let- 
ters. One was the draft of the note composed by 
Marie and Agnes, and addressed to Miss Alcott. 
The other was Will's elaborate manufactured reply. 

Dora was astounded ! " The little imps," she 
exclaimed to herself, " 1 never supposed they 
would carry out their threat ! " 

She hardly knew whether to be more pleased or 
vexed. She was glad to have the opinion of Miss 
Alcott herself as to the advisability of letting her 
sisters read the longed-for book ; but she was dis- 
pleased at the spirit of insubordination displayed 
by the young rebels. She never for an instant 
suspected the genuineness of the note. 

When Agnes and Marie returned from school, 
Dora quietly went to her room, and came back a 
few minutes later with "Rose in Bloom," which 
she handed without a word to Agnes. 

Agnes and Marie exchanged swift glances with 
Will. They felt they could not take advantage of 
Dora's unsuspecting confidence. Agnes, therefore, 
returned the book, and the three conspirators 
related the story of the forged note. 

Dora laughed heartily and good-naturedly. 

"But, you young wretches!" she exclaimed, 
"here have I proudly displayed that autograph to 
a dozen people, and now I shall be obliged to con- 
fess how I have been duped. Several of them 
went so far as to ask me for it ! Well, well, I sup- 
pose you might just as well read the book now, or 
there is no knowing what will occur to you to do 

And Agnes and Marie read " Rose in Bloom." 

Miss Alcott, to whom tlie foregoing story was submitted before its acceptance by .St. Nichol.\s, sent us this 
good-natured comment concerning it : 

" The account of the boy's hoax is very funny, and I have no objection to its publication. I enjoyed the joke, was 
taken in by the forgery, and admired the cleverness of Brother Will.' But I hope he will ' never do so any more,' 
or he may come to a bad end. The illustration is delightful, and I trust the persistent 'goslings' were not dis- 
appointed in the book wlien they read it. — L. M. A." — Editor. 


By Frank Dempster Sherman. 

Who shall sing to bleak November, 
Month of frost and glowing ember? 
Is there nothing, then, to praise 
In these chilly thirty days ? 
Ah, and who shall lack for song 
When the nights are still and long 
When beside the log-wood fii-e 
We may hear the wood-elves' choir 
Making dainty music float 
Up the big, brick chimney's throat; 

When within the flames and smoke 
We may see a fairy folk 
Coming hither, going thither. 
Vanishing we know not whither? 
Unless perhaps they all depart 
For the frozen forest's heart, 
To tell the stark, forsaken trees 
Of the fireside's mysteries, — 
How they saw some other elves 
Just as funny as themselves ! 

By Emma C. Dowd. 

" I 'M the brightest pug on the face of the earth, 
So says my handsome master ; 
I am just brimful of frohc and mirth, 
And nobody can run faster." 

" I 'm a Skye of one of the loveHest blues, 
My mistress says so daily ; 
I can wear eyeglasses and read the news, 
And entertain callers gayly " 

" I can do all tricks, I 'm a cunning elf. 
And 1 cost an even eighty." 

" That amount was paid for my very self. 
For my pedigree 's long and weighty." 


" What a price for a Skye ! But if I were you, 
1 'd pay that sum for a shearing." 


" And if I were so sleek that my sides shone through, 
I 'd feel hke disappearing." 



" Well, if I could n't tell my tail from my head, 
'T would deprive me of locomotion ! " 


" If my nose were smutty, 't would kill me dead ; 
I would drown myself in the ocean." 


" I assure you that pugs bring the highest price 
In the market, sir, — that 's decided !" 


Well, I tell you, no dog, by any device. 
Ever brought so much money as I did ! " 

Sf. Bernard. 

" Come, stop your quarreling, foolish curs ! 
You 're the silliest pair in collars ; 
I can settle your question at once, good sirs,- 
For /cost a thousand dollars." 


By Delia W. Lyman. 

" Oh ! " yawned Tommy Tedman as he shut his 
astronomy with a slam and curled himself up 
among the cushions of the big lounge near the 

"I wish Archimedes could liave got a fulcrum 
and a long enough lever, and that he had given 
the earth a big shove back and set her going the 
wrong way around the sun ! I do wonder what 
would have happened ! " he soliloquized. 

Now this seems a queer idea to come from the 
brain of a merry, red-cheeked boy of fourteen ; but it 
would not have caused Mrs. Tedman the least sur- 
prise ; for he was always propounding the oddest, 
most unheard-of questions, which nobody on earth 
could answer. But as neither she nor any one 

else was at hand to comment on Tommy's original 
query, he pondered over it by himself for awhile, 
and then, feeling uncommonly comfortable, fell 

He had not slept long, when he was suddenly 
aroused by a great shout in the street. Without 
waiting to find his cap, he rushed out to see what 
was the matter. A great crowd was hurrying past 
toward the City Hall Square, but they all were on 
such a run that nobody looked at Tommy, and 
finally the distracted boy had to seize a man by the 
coat-tail to make him wait while he asked : 

" What 's the matter ? " 

The man looked around scornfully at him and 
replied : 




"Why! don't you know? The earth 's going 
the wrong way / " 

" Why, how odd ! " thought Tommy ; " that 's 
the very thing I was wondering about this after- 
noon ! " 

" How did it happen? " he called after the man, 
who was now running on again. 

"The National Academy of Sciences did it"; 
came the reply. 

" How ? " shouted Tommy ; but the man was 
out of hearing, so Tommy joined the crowd and 
rushed along with it to the City Hall Square. In 
front of the great clock-tower a man, who wore 
big spectacles and looked like a professor, was 
making a speech. 

"Yes, fellow citizens ! " he was saying, "the 
great experiment has been successfully performed. 
The earth is now ninnng backward in its orbit 
and revolves from east to west instead of from west 
to east, as you will see by watching the clock." 

Tommy looked, and though he remembered 
hearing the clock strike four when he was studying 
his astronomy, the hands now pointed to two, and 
as he stood watching, the minute hand slowly 
moved back to four minutes of two. 

" Yes ! fellow citizens ! " the professor continued, 
" the earth is going back ! Time is going back ! 
We all will ■novi grow young instead of old ! " 

"Three cheers for the National Academy!" 
shouted a man near Tommy, and all the grown- 
up people gave three rousing cheers, — but the 
boys and girls kept still, for they wished to grow 
old, not young. 

After the professor had explained more in detail 
how the earth was turned back, and also how it 
was made to revolve from east to west instead of 
the old way, the crowd dispersed; but while Tommy 
stood staring at the clock to see its hands going 
the wrong way, he saw Todd Boggins coming to- 
ward him. 

" Hallo, Todd ! " said he, " queer idea, is n't 
it, — the earth going around the wrong way?" 

" 1 don't know that it 's any queerer than its 
going the other way ! " replied Todd carelessly. 
" I 'm in a hurry to get home to dinner." 

"Dinner?" cried Tommy; "you mean sup- 
per ! " 

" Dinner ! " repeated Todd loftily ; " it 's quar- 
ter of two now, and it will be half-past one by the 
time I get home, and that 's dinner time." 

" Jiminy Hoe-cakes ! so it is ! " said Tommy 
gleefully at the thought of another dinner so soon. 
" Will you come over and play ball after dinner ? " 
he continued. 

" Not much ! " said Todd emphatically ; " we '11 
have to go to morning school again after or, per- 
haps I ought to say, before, dinner." 
Vol. XV. — 5. 

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear!" ejaculated 
Tommy all the way home. 

He found the family just sitting down to dinner, 
and it certainly was the oddest meal Tommy ever 
ate. The dessert was served first, then the meat 
and vegetables, and finally the soup. When his 
father then asked the blessing, Tommy almost 
I)urst out laughing ; but as every one else took 
things as a matter of course, he restrained himself 
as well as he could. 

It was half-past twelve when dinner was through, 
and he started off with his books to school. As 
soon as he had taken his seat in the school room, 
he found that the closing exercises were going on. 

" How is this ?" whispered he to Todd, who was 
his seatmate, " am I so very late ? " 

" Oh, not at all," replied Todd seriously, " we 're 
just beginning." 

Soon after that. Miss Goggles called up the 
geography class. 

" Oh, dear ! " said Tommy out loud, " I have n't 
studied my lesson ! " 

"No matter," said Miss Goggles. "Recite it 
first, and study it afterward." 

Tommy thought that was queer; but when, 
after the recitation, he began to study his lesson, 
he found it queerer still ; for he was obliged to 
begin at the end of the book and go back, and the 
longer he studied, the less he knew and the more 
he forgot, and so it was with all his lessons. They 
were recited first and studied afterward, and all 
the books were learned backward. 

At last, when the clock-hand had moved back 
nearly to nine. Miss Goggles called the roll, and 
school was over. 

" Well ! this beats the Dutch ! " exclaimed 
Tommy improperly but expressively to Todd on 
their way home. As Todd made no reply. Tommy 
said presently, "will you come over and play 
tennis after dinner ? " 

"Dinner!" exclaimed Todd, "I 'm going to 
breakfast and then to bed ! " 

" Bed ! " cried Tommy ; " well, 1 never I " 

But as, after breakfast, at about seven o'clock, 
all the rest of the Tedman family bade one another 
good-morning and went off to bed (except the cook, 
who said of course she 'd wait till six). Tommy 
trundled himself off too. He was so excited over 
the strange events of the day that he did not get to 
sleep for a long while, but lay still, listening to the 
clucking of the hens and the chirping of the birds 
outside. Soon the milkman came, and not long 
after he heard the cook creaking upstairs to bed. 
It seemed odd to be going to bed by daylight, but 
by the time the cook went up, he heard the cocks 
crowing and it was quite dark ; for it was late in 
November. Presently Tommy fell asleep and did 




not wake until he heard his mother tcUing him it 
was time to get up. Though it was pitcli darlc 
and the stars were shining brightly, he arose, lit 
the gas and dressed. 

When he went downstairs, he found the family 
playing games in the parlor. 

" Good evening, Tommy ! " said his mother. 

"Why, how long have \ou been up?" asked 

" Your father and I nearly two hours," replied 
she, " and the others not much longer than you." 

Tommy remembered that he, being the young- 
est, always used to be sent to bed first, so he was 
quite pleased at the idea of lying abed so much 
longer. It crossed his mind that after all there 
were some advantages in the earth's going back- 

It was half-past eight when he came down, and 
by the time it was seven the games were discon- 
tinued and they all sat down to supper, and no 
one but Tommy seemed to think it at all unusual to 
cat cake and jam first and oatmeal and bread and 
butter afterward. As Tommy feasted upon the 
cake and jam before the edge of his appetite was 
taken off by his usual portion of bread and butter, 
again he thought what a delightful thing it was 
for the earth to have been turned back. After 
supper he went out to play tennis, though it was 
still rather dark. 

At first he was quite nonplussed by the new 
way of counting, — " Game, forty, thirty, fifteen, 
love ! " and especially when a set was concluded, 
to see them toss up for first serve. Soon, how- 
ever, Todd Boggins appeared, greeting him wiih, 
" Good-bye, Tommy ! " and Tommy threw off his 
overcoat, began to play, and soon became used to 
the new style. 

Although the weather was quite bleak and cold 
when Tommy first went out, by four o'clock it was 
very comfortable. About three, Todd left him 
with a "How do you do. Tommy ? " and Tommy 
went home to study the lessons he had recited the 
day before. Then came dinner and school again. 

That day had been Monday, so when Tommy 
awoke the next evening, he found his clean Sun- 
day clothes all laid out for him on a chair. After 
a quiet evening and afternoon. Tommy w-ent with 
the family to church. After the closing prayer 
came a hymn beginning with the last verse, and 
then the contribution box was passed. Instead of 
beginning with empty boxes, the deacons started 
out with them all quite full and proceeded to dis- 
tribute the money among the congregation. Al- 
most every one took out a piece of money large or 
small. Next came the sermon beginning with the 
general conclusion and practical suggestions and 
gradually working down to the text. 

After the minister had read the notices of the 
meetings of the past week, the service was con- 
cluded by the opening hymn and prayer, and they 
all went home. Tommy noticing that the church 
bells were just beginning to ring as they reached 
the house. 

The next afternoon Tommy was hunting for a 
book in the library, when he heard his father, who 
had a newspaper in his hand, say to his uncle : 

" Yes, this is a very convenient thing to be able 
to read in a newspaper each evening just what is 
going to happen during the day. Now I know to 
a certainty what stocks will be this morning! " 

"Yes," replied his uncle, "newspaper reports 
are much more satisfactory than they used to be ; 
though after all, the old method of preparing them 
was not so very different. Many reports were 
written up before the events took place, and often 
widely missed the mark." 

Tommy did not understand his uncle's last 
obser\'ation, so having found his book, he began 
to read. Soon, however, the conversation turned 
on going to college ; and as Tommy was always 
interested in that, he listened again. 

" I suppose I shall enter college before long," 
his uncle was saying. 

"Yes," rejoined Mr. Tedman, "You '11 take 
your diploma first, and then go back through 
senior year and on till you are a freshman." 

"And that," said his uncle, who was fond of 
moralizing, "is n't so very different from the old 
way, either. I remember I entered college think- 
ing I knew everything worth knowing, and the 
longer I staid, the greater I discovered my ignor- 
ance to be. It will be something like that, now." 

Just then Tommy heard Todd Boggins whistling 
for him outside the house. 

"Dear me!" said Tommy to Todd as they 
walked along, " I don't quite like this idea of 
growing young all the time ; I 'm young enough 
already. At the rate we 're going on in school, 
we '11 be learning our A B C's again pretty 
soon ! " 

"Of course we shall!" said Todd, "and then 
we '11 begin to play with blocks, and then we '11 
creep instead of walk, and then we '11 get to play- 
ing with rattles, and all that sort of business." 

" It 's awful ! " exclaimed Tommy, in great con- 

" I should say so ! " assented Todd. " You 
ought to hear my grandfather talk about it. He 's 
only three weeks young ! and he says " 

" Three weeks ! " shouted Tommy. "You're 
fooling ! " 

" Come and see him ! " said Todd. So the two 
boys went on to Todd's house. 

There they found an old gentleman with white 




hair and wrinkled face in a large arm-chair, and 
sitting surrounded lay the whole Boggins family. 

" Bless you, dears ! " the old gentleman was 
saying; " this is a pleasant world, and I Ve come 
to stay. We shall have a good time together ; 
for I 'm sure of a good long life before my baby 
limbs are laid away. I want you all to promise, 
my dears, that none of you will bring my childish 
curls (which 1 shall then have) in sorrow to the 
grave ! " 

" Oh, no ! I 'm sure we won't," replied Mrs. 
Boggins with tears of joy on her face. " And I 'm 
so glad you won't die till you 're a little baby, for 
then you '11 know nothing about it, and it won't be 
sad at all." 

But though it appeared to be very nice for old 
Grandfather Boggins, the more Tommy thought 
about it on his way home, the more dreadful it 
seemed to him that he himself must grow younger 
and younger, without a chance to become a man 
and make the great name for himself which had 
been his great ambition ever since he put on his 
first trousers. 

" I don't want to be a baby !" he said to him- 

self; "I don't want to be put to bed and have 
to drink milk, which I hate, and play with a rattle ! 
bah ! " 

He became so wrought up over the idea, that 
he felt if only he had Archimedes's lever, he could 
pound the heads of all the National Academy. 

Just then the City Hall bell rang and Tommy 
saw the Professor with big spectacles hurrying on 
to address another meeting of citizens in the 

" There ! " exclaimed Tommy, " I 'II begin by 
pounding his head." 

But as he was hurrying on with this charitable 
intention, a voice like a cannon shouted in his 
ears : 

"Waffles and 
bell has rung ! 
them all up ! " 

Tommy rubbed his eyes, looked hastily toward 
the clock, where to his immense relief he beheld 
the second hand going around the right way, and 
then rushed to supper to lose the memory of his 
strange dream in that dish so dear to a school- 
boy's heart, — hot waffles and maple syrup. 

maple syrup for supper ! The 
Hurry up, Tommy, or I '11 eat 

/^RCrft:\^qtE]^ •[IAPF|'- Dl5fo5iriq^^ 

i>*^ I-*- >^ — ' 


f j/ou ot I on a windy cl£\y, 
Were han^ind out clotjies 'ike TFiat', 
m afraiJ we shouicl Leju^ta little brovoke^ 
|f "trie wm<3 l)lew off oup nat . 

Is wiser vou see 
W/ien it ulovvs vou will near- ner cr; 
'Nevei- mind , /A^ Bcee^e 
^^^^fie more vou ^/ 

Lease, 'v^ss 

^ ^s. o^mcV^T my „ _^ ->'•'/ 
^ j)v cl4^ will ^y. ^^^ 



It was really a magnificent display in the pastry- 
cook's window. 

Under the dome of the pastry temple, on a very 
rich fruit cake, heavily frosted, stood the little bride 
and bridegroom. 

The bride's dress was white, to be sure, and as 
it says in Annie Laurie, " her brow was like the 
snow-drift, her neck was like the swan's" — a candy 

The bride wore a wreath of fine, large lily bells, 
and an illusion veil which was so coarse that the 
meshes of it resembled tiny windows. 

She held one of her hands extended before her, 
and in the other she modestly carried a book of 
devotion, made out of tlie same material as the 
temple. And she smiled very sweetly. 

The bridegroom was attired in evening dress, 
but his shoes were white to match the bride. His 
eyes were blue and his hair brown and wavy. 

There was a bright little patch of color in each 
cheek, and he wore a ruffle on his shirt-bosom. 

He was standing in the attitude of Daniel Web- 
ster, making a gesture with his right hand, and 
with his left trifling with a handsome watch-guard, 
which evidently came with the suit. 

Two generous fountains, — you might mistake 
them for liorse-hair, but the cunning confectioner 
had manufactured them from the finest sugar, — 
gushed from the sides of the cake into rustic, 
snowy tubs. 

The whole affair was ornamented with silver 
leaves and finished with a wooden platter and 
costly paper lace. 

The bride and bridegroom could not get married 
until somebody bought them and gave them a 

Tliis made them watch eagerly every person who 
passed the pastry-cook's window. 

The lady who kept the millinery store a few doors 
below remarked to the pastry-cook's fat wife that 
the groom was "sweet." 

The pastry-cook's fat wife laughed and shook 
her brass ear-rings, and replied that such was the 
fact. But, for all that, the milliner did not purchase 
the cake. 

The boy who was going on seven, with the full- 
rigged ships on his calico jacket, who used to bring 
the small girl, quite smart in the infant's scalloped 
flannel shawl, pinned with a hat-pin around her 
shoulders, would have liked to buy it ; but crullers 
were more in vogue then, and it could not be 
bought for a penny. 

One day a pretty young lady, who blushed con- 
siderably, entered the pastry-cook's shop accom- 
panied by her mother. 

The cake, the temple, and the bride and bride- 
groom were ordered to be sent home. They were 
packed carefully in shavings, the lids of the paste- 
board boxes were tied down over them firmly, and 
darkness descended. 

When they were uncovered and stood up again, 
they found themselves in a scene of glory. 

There they were in the middle of a splen- 
did supper-table. A lofty tower of macaroons 
and nougat rose on either side of them. Ripe 
fruits peeped at them from low epergnes. Can- 



dies and frosted cake sparkled from crystal 

Even the napkins were folded into the most 
curious shapes. Ices and creams and flowers glis- 
tened everywhere about. The table was lighted 
by wax candles, shaded with rose-colored silk 
shades, and placed in silver sticks. 

" Now," thought the bride and bridegroom, " it 
is going to happen." 

They were to be married at last. They trem- 
bled with happiness. 

The colored waiters had left the supper-room 
for an instant. 

At that moment the bridegroom discovered a 

Presently the bridegroom beheld a little brides- 
maid enter the supper-room and glance about 

She had on white silk stockings and a tulle dress 
spangled so gayly that it made her look lovely. 
Her hair was frizzed. 

The bridesmaid, with that greedy look still in 
her eyes, marched over to the table, clutched the 
table-cloth, climbed upon a chair, and grabbed the 
bridegroom off the cake. 

The bridesmaid deliberately bit off the bride- 
groom's head. 

In the confusion, an orange and several walnuts 
bumped down on the table and rolled off over the rug. 


1 a ^& J. 

pair of greedy eyes staring hungrily at him from 
between the embroidered portieres. The portieres 
began to move wider and wider apart. 

The bridegroom gradually distinguished first a 
pair of bright eyes, then a pair of ripe little lips, then 
a small nose and an absurd, dimpled little chin. 

But the bridegroom was not candy as the brides- 
maid had expected he would be, he was " only 
horrid sweet stuff," she said. 

Nevertheless, that was the end of the bride- 
groom. But the bride kept on smiling although 
the bridegroom was beheaded. 


Bv Margaret Evtinge. 


This is the way they came to have a picnic in the woods that fine 
autumn day. Bkie Bird went under the big oak-tree to look for some 
worms or grass-seeds to eat, when something fell from the tree upon her 

head. " Dear me," said she, " what was that? " 
And off she flew to tell Gray Squirrel about it. 
Gray Squirrel was in a hole in a tall tree. 
" Good-day," said Gray Squirrel, when he 
saw Blue Bird. But Blue Bird did not say 
"Good-day." She said, "Oh! Gray Squirrel, 
something fell from the big oak-tree and struck 
me upon the head ! " 

" "...4".!:" '' "Did it hurt?" asked Gray Squirrel. 

" It did," said Blue Bird. 
" Did n't you look to see what it was ? " asked Gray Squirrel. 
" No ; I was so frightened, I flew right away," said Blue Bird. 
"Let 's go and tell Field Mouse about it," said Gray Squirrel. "I will 
call my mother, and 
my two sisters, and 
my three brothers, 
and they can go too." 
So Gray Squirrel 
and his mother, and 
his two sisters, and his 
three brothers went 
with Blue Bird to call 
on Field Mouse. Field 
Mouse lives in a hole 
in the ground. She 
peeped out of the hole 
when she heard them 

" Good-day, Blue 
Bird," said she. But 
Blue Bird did not say "Good-day." She said, "Oh! Field Mouse, some- 
thing fell from the big oak-tree and hit me upon the head ! " 



'^^^^^^/l,, • 


Then Gray Squirrel and his mother, and his two sisters, and his three 
brothers, all said at once, " Yes, something fell from the big oak-tree and 
hit Blue Bird on the head ! " 

" Did it hurt ? " asked Field Mouse. 

" It did," said Blue Bird. 

And Gray Squirrel and his mother, and his two sisters, and his three 
brothers, all said at once, "It did." 

" I will call my five little mice," said Field Mouse, " and we all will go and 
see Wise Frog. He will, no doubt, be able to tell us how to find out what 
it was." 

So Field Mouse and her five little mice, and Gray Squirrel and his 
mother, and his two sisters, and his three brothers, all went with Blue Bird 
to call on Wise Frog. Wise Frog lives in a brook that runs through the 

"Good-day, Blue Bird," said he. But Blue Bird did not say "Good- 
day." She said, " Something fell from the big oak-tree when I was under 
it, and hit me on the head ! " 

Then Gray Squirrel and his mother, and his two sisters, and his three 
brothers, and Field Mouse and her five little mice, all said at once, " Yes, 
something fell from the big oak-tree and hit Blue Bird on the head ! " 

"Did it hurt?" asked Wise Frog. 

" It did," said Blue Bird. 

And Gray Squirrel and his mother, and his two sisters, and his three 




brothers, and Field Mouse and her five litde mice, all said at once, " It 

Then Wise Frog said, " Let me think." And they let him think. 

Then he said, "We must go to the foot of the big oak-tree and find 
out what it was that came down and hit Blue Bird on the head. I will 
call my friend Speckled Toad, and he can go too." 

So Gray Squirrel and his mother, and his two sisters, and his three 

brothers, and Field Mouse and her five little mice, and Wise Frog and his 
friend Speckled Toad, all went with Blue Bird to the foot of the big oak-tree. 

And what do you think they found there? 

Nothing but an acorn, and a very small one at that ! 

"Dear me," said Blue Bird, "how silly I was to be so frightened!" 

" Very silly," said Wise Frog. And " Very silly ! " said Speckled Toad, 
and Gray Squirrel and his mother, and his two sisters, and his three 
brothers, and Field Mouse and her five little mice, all at once. 

Then Blue Bird said, " But now that we are /lere, all together, let 's 
stay the rest of the day and have a good time." 

"We will," said Wise Frog and his friend Speckled Toad, and Gray 




Squirrel and his mother, and his two sisters, and his three brothers, and 
Field Mouse and her five httle mice, all at once. And they did. 





A NEW month ! Well, well, it seems hardly a 
week since we all were here together ; but St. 
Nicholas says it 's a full month, and he knows. 

How fare you, my friends ? 1 hope you are hav- 
ing a happy autumn, and that many of you have 
enjoyed bright foliage overhead and found tempt- 
ing nuts underfoot. And I trust you 've kept your 
eyes and ears open for other things too. For in- 
stance, there is 


How many of you have seen a harvest spider 
this autumn, I wonder ! There were a few here in 
my meadow, and it was comical to see their pe- 
culiar way of frightening off any invader who came 
to molest them. Or was it an ingenious way of 
catching insects who were too wary to enter the 
web at a dash ? I saw a dainty little girl one day 
stand silently admiring the beautiful web of one 
of these spiders. It was very large, and it stretched 
from a post-and-rail fence to a bush near by, the 
weaver keeping guard at its center, — grim but 
superb in his coat of yellow and black. Finally the 
girl touched one delicate filament very lightly with 
a twig. Instantly the entire web began to swing 
backward and forward, backward and forward, as 
though some invisible fairy were pushing it. The 
spider did not move ; but the little girl did, for she 
scampered off like a second Miss IVIuffet. — Talking 
of spiders, here is a letter that may interest you. 


Dear Jack : Have any of you boys and girls looked ouL on the 
fields of a summer morning and noticed the grass covered with little 
cobwebs ? Well, under each web there is a spider that comes out 
of a hole in the ground, and all the spiders are alike. When these 
webs are on the grass, it is quite sure not to rain. So you see some 
spiders are weather prophets, like a great many other things. To be 
sure, it is pleasant on very many days when there are no webs to be 
seen. Perhaps some of you can tell why they appear some days and 
not others. Yours, Ora. 


IVlY birds have twittered with pleasure at this 
idea suggested in a pretty verse by our friend 
Richard E. Burton. How does it strike you ? 

The King-bird's tail is tipped with white : 

For once upon a winter's day. 
The swift snow caught him, fast aflight, — 

And though he strove to get away, 
Just touched his tail a tiny mite. 

And ever since, the King-bird wise 

Goes south, to shun the winter skies. 


Dear Jack : I have copied for you something 
which I read in T/if Oist'iTcr yesterda.y. Do please 
show it to other girls, so that each may find an 
acorn this autumn, and start a little tree. 

1 am your attentive reader, Jenny C. 

"To PRODUCE one of these dainty litde plants, take an acorn and 
tie a string around it, so that the blunt end, where the cup was, 
is upward. Suspend it in a bottle or hyacinth glass containing a 
small quantity of water, but be careful that the acorn does not reach 
within an inch of the water. Wrap the bottle in flannel, and leave 
it, undisturbed, in a warm, dark place. In a month or less, the 
acorn will swell, burst its coat, and throw out a tiny white point. 
This is the root, and when half an inch long the water may be 
allowed to rise higher, but must not touch it until the neck of the 
root begins to turn upward. As soon as this stem commences to 
shoot, the baby oak will require small doses of light every day, and 
the root can now extend into the water. In a week or so it will be 
ready to be removed to a window, where you can watch the devel- 
opment. At first the tiny trunk that is to be will resemble a whitish 
thread, covered with small scales. Then the scales will expand and 
the end become green. Little leaves will appear, veins will branch, 
and old leaves fall off, until you have a perfect miniature of the great 
kings of the forest." 


Dear Jack : Our papa read to us the other 
day something that is most curious, and I will 
copy it for you from the paper. Science. If I try 
to tell it in my own words, I get mixed. Papa says 
velocity means speed, and that Professor Mees is a 
learned man who was addressing a meeting in New 
York, for the advancement of science ; so now I 
will give it to you. 

" It is striking evidence of the great velocity attained in tornadoes 
that straws and bits of hay are often driven like darts into pine 
boards, and even into the dense bark of hickory-trees. Professor 
Mees found that, to obtain similar results by shooting straws from 
an air-gun, velociries of from one hundred and fifty to one hundred 
and seventy-five miles per hour were necessary." 

If any of us St. NICHOLAS boys, after a tornado, 
ever find any bits of hay or straw driven into pine 
boards or hickory-trees, we must remember to send 
you word. 

Your faithful little friend, John T. C. 



' Dear J.\ck-in-the-Pulpit : Allow me to write you asking some 
information relative to a worm whose feat I witnessed one day last 

In front of my papa's store door there is a large sycamore-tree. 



I chanced to observe, suspended from a limb of the tree, say forty- 
five feet high, by a single thread, or web, a worm or other insect. On 
noticing it for some lime, I found it to be slowly descending to the 
ground. There was formed over the entire body a covering, made 
principally, as it seemed, of the bark of the sycamore — brown and 
light colored. The lower e.\tremity had coiled around It a small 
piece of dead leaf. This covering concealed it from view, except its 
head, which it continually moved about. Finally it reached the 
ground, allowing only its lower extremity to touch. Remaining on 
thegroimd about two minutes, it raised itself up about six inches, 
kept itself suspended two minutes, and again lowered itself till its 
lower extremity touched the ground. This alternate self-suspension 
and lowering was repeated three times, remaining in each position, 
each time, two minutes. The fourth time it raised itself, it did not 
return, but continued its slow ascent to the limb from which it was 
suspended. The entire length of its web, about forty-five feet long, 
could be seen at limes when the sun would shine on it. Its return 
to the limb from which it suspended itself required four hours. _ From 
what I could observe, it was enabled to return by means ot" taking up 
its web in its mouth and depositing it on one side, and on a level 
with its head, which it conlinually moved from side to side. I came 
to thiscfinclusion because, soon after it began its ascent, J discovered 
a very small tuft of white to one side of its head, on its incasement 
or covering ; and as it ascended the tuft of white increased in size. 
This tuft of white was its web being collected together. 

Now, what is the name of this worm? and for what purpose did it 

make a visit to earth, remain a few minutes, and then return to its 
leafy home ? 

I have never written to you before. Alice. 

Who can answer? Alice is a careful observerj 
and I shall be much pleased if any of my hearers, 
whether belonging to the Agassiz Association or 
not, can reply correctly to her queries. 


Here is sad news for my poor distant owls, but 
you young folk will not object to it. There is now 
in Australia an electric light, said to be the largest 
in the world, which the dear Little School-ma'am 
tells me sheds as much light as could be thrown 
by one hundred and eighty thousand candles / 
Think of that ! This light is very properly set in 
the Sydney light-house, whence it can throw out its 
guiding beams far over the sea. Sailors many miles 
away can see it and steer for home accordingly. 

\-\\\x ^ 'V 





Last January, when the Agassiz Association left the pruicctin,!^ 
wing of St., we promised to keep our friends informed of 
its progress and condition. I hope that you all are kindly interested 
in the fulfillment of that promise. In most of the forebodings which 
came to us with the beginning of our more independent life we have 
been happily disappointed. 

At first, it is true, many of the weaker Chapters fell away, but 
not so many as we had anticipated; and after a short time new re- 
cruits began to enlist in large numbers, so that now, in August, we 
find by careful census that we have more really active Chapters and 
a larger pre.'^ent membership than at any former period since we 
began, in 1880. Since our invitation was first carried by the Sv. 
Nicholas to the young men and women of America to unite in 
forming an association for the study of natural science by means 
of personal observation, we have enrolled eleven hundred branch 
societies, with a total membership of twelve thousand one hundred. 
Besides these, there have been perhaps four or five hundred persons 
who have joined as individual students. 

Many of these local societies, or Chapters, were organized merely 
as temporary classes, for the purpose of pursuing someone or more 
of the courses of practical work with minerals, plants, or insects, 
which we have been able to present. These have naturally dis- 
banded on the ctjmpletion of the courses in which they were en- 
gaged. Other Chapters have been organized with a \'iew to per- 
manence. These have in many cases rented rooms, or erected 
buildings, in which to hold meetings, establish libraries, and build 
up local museum-;. All these still remain with us, and are steadily 
growing in power and usefulness. 

Many Chapters have been established in connection with schools. 
When these have been aided and superintended by the principal 
teachers, they are usually long-lived or permanent. When they 
have been organized and controlled by classes of students, indepen- 
dent of local residence or established teachers, they have usually 
disbanded at the graduation of the classes. A large number of little 
societies have been formed by the parents and children of single 
families. I'hese have been broken up rarely, except by the sad m- 
trusion of sickness and death. After deducting withdrawals from 
all these and other causes, we find by an examination of our books 
to-day that we have a total of six hundred and sixty-seven 
active, working Chapters, representing a total membership of 
seven thousand three hundred and sixty-three. In other words, 
out of all who have in any way connected themselves with us, 
either as temporary classes or established branches, during the 
past seven years, we retain as active members more than sixty per 
cent. This membership is distributed as follows : 





Connecticut . , . 



Dist. Columbia 










Maryland . . . 
Massachusetts . 


Minnesota .... 
Mississippi. . . . 


















Chap. Mem. 

Montana 3 

Nebraska 3 

N. Hampshire. 8 

New Jersey. . . 38 

New York ... 116 

North Carolina i 

Ohio 31 

Oregon 2 

Pennsylvania. . 70 

Rhode Island. 11 

Tennessee .... 3 

ULah I 

Texas 10 

South Carolina 4 

Vermont 5 

Wash. Ter 3 

Virginia 9 

W. Virginia. . . i 

Wisconsin 16 

Canada 9 

England 8 

Japan i 

Scotland 2 

















During the year, we have offered a course in mineralogy, which 
has been conducted by Professor W. O. Crosby, of the Boston 
Society of Natural History, and which has been largely patronized 
by conscientious and enthusiastic workers. We have emphasized 
the feature of special assistance to our members, by enlarging the 
corps of scientists who voluntarily hold themselves in readiness to 
answer questions and determine specimens for any members who 
may apply to them. There are now forty-five of these gentlemen, 
who together form what we call the Council of the Agassiz Associa- 

Being interested to know what sort of question our young friends 
have been in the habit of launching at these kind specialist, a little 

circular was sent to them quite recently, making a few inquiries, 
which will be inferred plainly enough from the answers which follow. 
Of course, I give only a few, but they are interesting as showing in 
the first place the noble spirit of unselfishness which animates a true 
scientist ; and, in the second place, the spirit of courteous deference 
which inspires the earnest searcher for knowledge. I take selections 
nearly at random ; 

" Perhaps fifty or more have applied to me for help. The 
questions appear to come from beginners, and have been generally 
regarding the names of insects sent." — C. H. Femald, Amherst 

College. "The letters have indicated intelligent interest." — 

William Trelease, Shaw School of Botany. " The letters have 

invariably been courteously worded, accompanied by return post- 
age, sensible, intelligent, and indicative of a real desire to learn." 

— Leland O. Howard, U. S. Dept. Agr. '"I ha^■e had a 

goodly number apply for help in conchology, but not one-qunrter as 
many as I should like. I should like to hear from everj' Chapter." — 

Thomas Morgan. "It gives me great pleasure to say that I shall 

be most happy to continue. Without exception, all queries have 
been characterized by an earnest spirit, and by InleUigence, and 
have been courteous in every instance and invariably accompanied 

by postage." — W. R. Lighton. "About forty have applied for 

help in ornithology. I have been quite surprised at the character of 
some of the questions which were so indicative of an earnest desire to 
learn on the part of the quizzer. " — J. de Benneville Abbott, M. D. 
"Large numbers have corresponded with me. and it is note- 
worthy to remark the great good sense and discretion observed by 
the majority. With a most earnest desire to use my best ability to 

further the cause of the A. A." — O. Bruce Richards. "I am 

willing to render all the assistance I can to members of the A. A. 
who are interested in birds and reptiles. I always esteem it a 
privilege to help those who are trying to help themselves in original 

investigation." — Amos Butler. "It affords me pleasure at all 

times to assist in smoothing the way and solving the doubts, so far 
as I am able, of all who apply to me. These applications ha\'e 
been numerous. The correspondence has uniformly been kind, and 

to me useful." — A. W. Chapman. "A great many specimens 

have been sent, always accompanied by intelligent questions, show- 
ing fair discrimination. I shall be very happy to continue to be of 
what service I can, as I consider the effort that you are making an 
extremely valuable educational one, because it teaches young per- 
sons to discriminate between differences that are slight, and to cul- 
tivate habits of observation and judgment. There are ver>' few 
enterprises with which I ha\e become familiar in recent years that 
have a greater interest for me than this one that you are engaged 

in." — Thomas Egleston, Columbia College. "Regarding the 

A. A., for which I have the greatest interest, I will gladly continue 
to answer questions in general biology. I regret that I have not 
kept a list of the questions received. All were to the point." — C. F. 

Holder. " 1 have now labored with the Association for three years 

past as an assistant in my specialty, and since that time have received 
and answered many inquiries upon ethnologj' and archaeology, which 
come from all parts of America, and occasionally from Europe. 
These communications come from both young and old people, and 
are steadily increasing in volume. I speak of the young people first, 
from the fact that they seem much interested in collecting archseo- 
logical specimens, and in asking for information concerning the best 
methods of study, the geographical distribution, habits, songs, arts, 
folk-lore, etc., of our wild tribes." — Hilborne T. Cresson. 

A prominent feature of the year's work is the increased number 
of older persons who have united with the A. A. While the large 
majority of our members are still children, and while the youngest 
are eagerly welcomed, yet we have been greatly strengthened by the 
accession of very many young men and women of from seventeen to 
twenty-five years of age, and also by the enrollment of large num- 
bers of parents, teachers, and adult pupils. It is charming to find 
that the fascination of out-door study does not wear away. Those 
who have once fairly tasted the pleasure of carefully examining the 
structure and growth of flowers and insects, usually continue, 
throughout their whole lives, to draw increasing delight from renewed 
observations. Those who have once known the pleasure of unearth- 
ing a vein of crystals, or of making a complex mineral yield its 
secrets to the flame of the magic blow-pipe, never find cause for 
cftniii, so long as they can get hold of a hammer and a stone. Those 
who have once raised a moth or butterfly from the egg to the perfect 
imago have secured a source of enjoyment as lastmg as life and as un- 
limited as the insect world. All members of the Agassiz Association 
have the kindliest feelings for St. Nicholas, and rejoice to see that 
this magazine retains all its love for the strange and beautiful objects 
of nature. It makes little difference to what special society one 
belongs, or whether he belong to any. The important thing for 
each one of us is to come to the early use of the seeing eye, the hear- 
ing ear, and the understanding heart. 

Harlan H. Ballard. 



Young students of American history who may read Mr. E. S. 
Brooks's account of "Pocahontas," in this number, will note with 
interest that her real name was not " Pocahontas," nor that of her 
father " Powhatan ; " also that she did not save the life of Captain 
Smith in the manner so often described, and that she was really a 
young widow when she married the rather sanctimonious Master 

Those who wish to read the history of Pocahontas and Captain 
John Smith, in full, should obtain a copy of Charles Dudley 
Warner's very entertaining biography of Captain John Smith, 

in the series called ' 
Henry Holt & Co. 

Lives of American Worthies," published by 

All readers of St. Nicholas will be glad to see the amusing 
illustrated verse by Mr. J. G. Francis on page 39, and to know 
that Mr. Francis has prepared a series of these comic pictures which 
will appear during the coming year. And those young folk who have 
seen in books copies of the Aztec hieroglyphics, will appreciate the 
cleverness with which Mr. Francis has caricatured those old rude but 
expressive drawings without losing their special characteristics. 


Hotel Windsor, Victoria Street. 

De.>\r St. Nicholas : Though Mr. Stockton has visited England, 
he has made some slight mistakes in the description he gives of 
Buckinghamshire, my mother's native county. 

The greater part of my mother's childhood, at least every summer, 
was spent by her father and mother in a large farm-house on the top 
of the hill on which lies the White Cross, of which he speaks as being 
made by an antiquarian society to commemorate the battle fought 
by the Saxons and Danes, in which the former were victorious. 

The fact is that the cross was cut by the Saxons themselves, to 
commemorate the victory, in about the year 600. It is kept in order 
by funds from St. John's College, Oxford. 

The name of the village, Whiteleaf, is a corruption of Whitgelt, 
who was son of either Hengist or Horsa, and commanded the 
Saxons in this battle. The other ^'illage he mentions, which we also 
know well, is spelt Kimble, not Kimball, and was named after the 
British hero Cymbeline, about whom Shakspere wrote the play. 

I hope, dear St. Nicholas, Mr. Stockton will not mind my 
writing this letter, but I thought it would interest your readers. 

Now I must close. I am your constant and admiring reader, 

Dorothea Mary G . 

{Aged II years.) 

Englewood, III. 

De.\r Old St. Nicholas : Mamma subscribed for you when I 
was eleven years old, as a birthday present. I have taken you ever 
since (I am nearly thirteen now). 

Perhaps, like very modest people, you don't like to be praised, but 
you most certainly deserve a great deal of it. 

Laura Scott (a friend of mine) and myself were very much in- 
terested in the paper foldings which have appeared in the Septem- 
ber and August numbers. 

We tried the "Nantucket Sinks," and did n't succeed, but we 
astonished ourselves with the " First Paper Canoe." We made 
some on the scale of four and three-quarter inches, and we intend to 
try one on the scale of twelve inches. 

We bored holes in the center of each side of our canoes, through 
which we passed tooth-picks for oars. Laura made a paper man who 
sat in a very dignified manner with the oars (or rather tooth-picks) in 
his hands. 

We had " grand times " with our boats in the bath-tub. We also 
had a fleet of several smaller boats. 

My favorites are: "St. Nicholas Dog Stories," "Juan and 
Juanita," " Little Lord Fauntieroy," "Jenny's Boarding-house," 
and all of Miss Alcott's stories ; I am also very much interested in 
the " Brownies " and " Letter-box." 

I am afraid my letter is getting too long, so I will say good-bye. 
Ever your constant reader, Ethkl R . 

Washington, D. C. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have taken you only two months, and I 
think you are the most interesting magazine I have ever read. 

We used to live in Illinois, but have lived in Washington nearly 
two years. 

I went down to Alexandria not long ago, and went into the 
Braddock House, where General Braddock held a council of war 
one night, and saw the church where General Washington went to 

I will be thirteen years old the 4th of September, and we are 
going to have a play called " Ten Dollars," which we saw in the St. 
Nicholas for January, 1879. 

We have a friend who has the St. Nicholas in bound volumes 
from the first number issued. 

I am your constant reader, Portia O . 

Montclair, N. J, 
Dear St. Nicholas : In reading some of the letters in the 
" Letter-box," I have seen some strange things told, and I want to 
add to them. 

I was sitting in the sewing-room half an hour or so ago, when my 
married sister came, holding what looked like a baked pear. " Fritz," 
she said, " don't you want a baked pear ? " I said, as I had never 
tasted one, I would like to have it, and I took the hot pear she 
offered me, and bit into it. I looked up and remarked that it was 
very good, when she broke into a peal of laughter. I asked 
what the matter was, and she said, "Harry [her husband] and I 
put these pears out in the sun to ripen, and when I took them in to- 
day, that is what I found." All of the si.x pears were baked soft and 
juicy by the sun. The pear was hot, as if it had just come out of the 
oven. I took them to my mother, and she also thought they were 
very nice. How she laughed when I told her that they had been 
baked by the sun! From one who loves dear old St. Nicholas 
dearly, Fredekika P . 

Truro, Nova Scotia. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little girl, eight years old, and I 
live in Nova Scotia. Once we had a little kitten ; she was my pet, 
and she got into the oven one day, and we could not find her for a 
long time. 

I have two brothers and two sisters. A gentleman in Boston has 
sent you to us for two years. 

Douglas can not read you yet, but I can. I think "Jenny's 
Boarding-house " is a delicious story. 

Your affectionate friend, Grace H. P . 

P. S. — My kitty was dreadfully frightened. She trembled for a 
long time, but she was n't hurt. — G. H. P. 

Selins Grove, Pa. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I have taken your magazine since January. 
I like "Jenny's Boarding-house," and it is too bad it was burned. 
I think the Brownies are funny little creatures. I must tell you 
about my little sister Mary, two years old. She gets her prayers 
and Old Mother Hubbard mi.xed. The other night she said, " Now 
I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord to give the poor dog a 
bone." She makes lots of fun for us, and often talks about Brown- 
ies. I wish you would make my mistakes right. I must stop now 
and give the others a chance. 

Your little reader, W. M. S . 

Boulder, Color.^do. 
Dear St. Nicholas : My grandmother gives you to me every 
year for a Christmas present ; I have always enjoyed your stories. 
T am thirteen years old. My sister tried the "Human Melodeon" 
once, and it worked splendidly. I have a dog named Uno; he is 
very intelligent, — he will play hide-and-seek with us ; one of us holds 
him while the others hide. I am very much interested in "Juan 
and Juanita," and I hope they will get to their mother in the end. 
I remain your constant reader, Arthur C. J . 



Union City, Eureka Co., Nev. 

Mv Dear St. Nicholas: I am a Hide Buckeye girl, but 1 am 
spending the summer in a mining camp in Nevada. The St. 
Nicholas is sent me every month. I am seven years old, but 1 
can't read yet, and my mamma reads the stories to me. I enjoy them 
very much. 

I have not been down in the mines yet, but when I go it will be in 
a bucket. The sage-brush is all around us. The other evening 1 
saw two coyotes, a large one and a small one. My auntie said 
they looked like greyhounds, only they were shaggy. There 
are mountains all around us, and it seems as though I am inside 
of a round ball. 

I have another book, but it is not half as nice as the one you send 

Every night I see the stars that form a dipper, and the moon, and 
the evening star go down behind the mountain. 

My mamma is writing this letter for me, but 1 tell her what to say. 
Your true little friend, Mary P . 

HoLMWooD, Weybridge, Surrey, England. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I am an English girl. I am ten years old, 
and I am writing to tell you that I was bom on your day, 1876. We 
all like your magazine very much, and I especially like Miss Alcolt's 
Spinning-wheel stories. We have taken you for nearly seven years, 
and I hope we shall take you for a great many more years. 

I am ever your constant reader, Hilda G . 

Paoli, Ind. 
Dear St. Nicholas : Although I have only had the pleasure of 
reading your pages for two years I don't suppose any of your 
readers enjoy them more than I do. " The First Paper Canoe" in 
the last number interested me very much, so much that I worked 
one whole day over it before succeeding. Please let the author know 
that at least one American girl can carry the series through. I am 
eleven years old. I, like several of your readers, am very much 
interested in the fate of "Juan and Juanita." I remain, 

Your constant reader, Kate C. Green. 

Providence, R. I. 
Dear St. Nicholas : Since I have read of the curious utilizations 
of a square of paper, all our lesser ornaments have given place to 
Nantucket sinks and sail-boats, and I want to tell you how much wc 

appreciated your piece about paper boats, and how much amuse- 
ment we derived from it. 

The other day my sister and I collected our fleet from the numer- 
ous dry-docks, launched it in the bath-tub, and witnessed one of the 
most exciting races of the season. My sister, with a huge palm- 
leaf fan, impersonated Boreas, while I assumed the offices of judges, 
crews, reporters, and spectators. 

The Volunteer, being favored by Boreas, won the race, and with 
it the Nantucket sink, although, in her speedy run over the course, 
she damaged her keel, and had to be laid up lor repairs. 

The Mayflower sprung a leak in rounding a light-house strangely 
resembling a tooth-powder bottle, but -with the united efforts of the 
captain, who, being 3 bean, swelled to such an extent that the safety 
of the crew of collar-buttons was imperiled, and the sailors, who 
were kept busy pumping, she came in second. 

The Thistle in dry-dock was a handsome craft, but upon being 
launched she showed her inferior make by collapsing. 

The Puritan lost one man overboard, but he was a light weight 
and floated until rescued. 

The Sachem was stranded on a sponge half-way across the sound. 

I am a very big little girl, fifteen years old, but have been very 
much interested in the transformations of a square piece of paper, 
and hope you will send other designs for the benefit of your devoted 
peruser, Edith L. H . 

We present our thanks to the young friends whose names here 
follow, for the receipt of pleasant letters which they have sent: 
J. M. Brown, Jr., Sherman W. Eowen, Evelyn P. Willing, Jennie 
Hawkins, Sarah Chambers, Alice H. M. and Rachael A. S., Emma 
and Agnes, May G. B., Agnes J. Arrolt, Julia Robinson, Joe G., 
Nellie B. Bridgman, Joe C, Lucy Lee Brooks, Alice Hirsh, Bertha 
Crane, Kittie and Louie, Lily A. H., Cherry, Rosa P. L., Nina D., 
Jessie C. Drew, Grace W. Stoughton, Louise Hall, A. G. Robinson, 
Bessie D. P., A. N., Charlie C. S., Kitty, Gertrude A., Marie C, 
Chase, Florence M. Keith, Annie W. Mays, Jessie A. Wardrope, 
Carrie C. A.. M. E. B., jMary K. Hadley, Edward A. Selkirk, 
Henr^' Kramer and May Southgate, Rowena M. B., Maysie L. E., 
Nellie R. Mason, Gertrude W. Hepworth, Carrie M., Emma E. S., 
Agnes, Arthur D., Kate B. Conrad, Anna P. Hannum, Lottie G., 
Madge H. Lyons, Mary S. G., Elise Ernest W., Kathleen Pictor, 
Helen Howe, Edward E. J., Gertrude B,, Clara B., Bertha Danforth, 
Jessie Doak, and Edna Shepp. 




Hollow Square. Spade, easel, level, spool. 

Rhomboid. Across: i. Thames. 2. Agents. 3. Estate, 
Seraph. 5. Region. 6. Sector. 

Easy Greek Cross. I. i. Host. 2. Onto. 
II. I. Last. 2. Alto. 3. Stay. 4. Toys. 
Oval. 3. Yale. 4. Sled. IV. i. Sled, 

Dear." V. 1. Sled. : 
Numerical Enigma. 



3. Stay. 4. Toys. 
III. I. Toys. 2. 
Lame. 3. Emma. 


All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn. 

Led yellow Autumn, wreathed with nodding com. 

'■'■ Brigs of Ayr" Line 217. 

Double Cross-word Enigma. "All Hallow's Eve," and 
" Nutcrack Night." 

Double Square Remainders. From 4 to 7, grape; 5 to 8, 
later ; 6 to 9, steal ; i lo 10, crate ; 2 to 11 mates ; 3 to 12, spear. 

Novel Arithmetic, i. T-one. 2. L-one. 3. F-l-our. 4. 
T-h-ree. 5. T-w-o. 6. Fi-v-e 7. F-o-ur. 

Hour-glass. Cross-words : r. Wringing- wet. 2. Incondite. 
3. Nocturn. 4. Treed. 5. Ere. 6. R. 7. Lag. 8. Order. 
g. Ice-isle. 10. Narrative, ii. Sarculation. 
Letter-Puzzle. A E A E A 

E E E E E 
A E A E A 
E E E E E 
A E A E A 
Double Diamonds. I. Across : i. S. 2. Sap. 3. Eagle. 4. 
Dey. 5. S. II. Across: i. S. 2. Spa. 3. Heath. 4. Ace. 5. 
E. III. Across: i. A. 2. Ada. 3. Shock. 4. Art. 5. E. 

An Extraordinary Dinner. Soups, i. Mock-turtle. 2. 
Tomato. Fish. i. Sole. 2. Flounder. Entree. Quail with 
Bacon, on Toast. Roasts. i. Turkey. 2. Lamb. 3. Goose. 
Vegetables. i. Potato. 2. Peas. 3. Beets. 4. Cabbage. 
Dessert. i. Rhubarb pie. 2. Floating Island. Nuts. i. 
Chestnut. 2. Ground-nut. 3. Butternut. Fruits, i. Orange. 
2, Peaches. 3. Pears. 4. Bananas. 

To OUR Puzzlers: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, and 
should be addressed to St. Nicholas "Riddle-bo.x," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New-York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the August Number were received, before August 15th, from Francis W. Islip — J. Russell 
Davis — Maud E. Palmer — A. Fiske and Co. 

Answers to Puzzles in the August Number were received, before August 20, from "Ouidi and Wyandotte," 6 — Helen S. H., 2 — 
Marion S. Dumont, i — " Violet and Pansy," i — Paul Reese, 9 — Willie Kitchell, i — Charlotte, Ethel, and Dorothy H., r — " Cherokee 
Sam," 2— "St. Olafs Kirk, "3 — E. G. S., and E. K. S., i — Effie K. Talboys,7 — No name, Menai-Bridge, 8 — K. G. S., 10 — 
M. L. G., 8—" Fanatic," 7 — " Fanned," 8 — Gertrude Harrison, i — M. A. R. and H. A. R.,8 — Jo and I, 8 — " Sculptor," 8 — 
Jamie and Mamma, 8 — Alpha Alpha B. C., 5 — L. E. Nor, 4 — " Scotchie and 777," i — " Tweedledum and Tweedledee," 3 — " Grey 
Parrot," I — Helen, i — N. L. Howes, 7 — W. R. M,, 10 — D. H. Dodge, i — Amelia Donnally, 2 — Nellie and Reggie, 7 — *' May and 
79," 5 — *' Fox and Geese," 9 — Towner children, 8 — " Hikeydum," 8 — Ethel, Dorothy and Eva Ruth, and Uncle Andrew, 3 — 
" Chanito," 8. 


I. I. Serious. 2. To bereave. 3. Strokes. 4. A little air. 5. An 
order of insects having only two wings. 6. Nitrate of potassa. 7. A 
very large body of water. 

II. I. A verb. 2. The great poet of Greece. 3. Shaped like a 
dome. 4. To counterfeit. 5. Groups consisting of ten individuals. 
6. Regular charges. 7. One-half of a word meaning to diminish. 

" eureka." 

Any system of faith and worship. 9. Survives. 10. Providing food. 
II. A two-masted vessel. 12. A word corresponding with another. 
13. To reflect. 14. A vessel for holding ink. 15. Not retarded. 

F. S. F. 


From i to 2, a composition for five voices ; 2 to 4, an inhabitant 
of the earth ; 3 to 4, an object often seen about Easter ; i to 3, four- 
fold ; 5 to 6, the body of an army that marches in the rear of the 
main body to protect it; 6 to 8, the act of dictating; 7 to 8, man- 
ner of speaking in public ; 5 to 7, to revive ; i to 5, to vibrate ; 2 to 
6, effaced ; 4 to 8, smoked ham ; 3 to 7, to empower. 



Neog thha eth grinsp, hwit lal sit slowref, 
Dan geon het smursem mopp dan hows, 

Nad nutamu, ni hsi slaflese browes, 
Si gainwit rof eth trinsew wens. 


All of the words described contain the same number of letters. 
When rightly guessed and placed one below the other, in the order 
here given, the third row (reading downward) will spell what we 
all should give at the time named in the sixth row of letters. 

Cross-words: i. Vigorous. 2. Entwined. 3. An ensign of 
war. 4. Filtered. 5. Assaulted. 6, Disperses. 7. Forebodes. 8. 

By starting at the right letter in one of the above words, 
taking every third letter, a quotation from Shakespeare's 
be formed. lu, 

and then 

plays may 




I. Upper Square: i. Scrutinizes. 2. A song of joy. 3. To 
mount. 4. A nozzle. 5. To rest. 

II. Left-hand Square: t. To urge. 2. To untwist. 3. To 
escape. 4. A plant which grows in wet ground. 5. To rest. 

III. Central Square: i. To repose. 2. An insect in the first 
stage after leaving the egg. 3. Ospreys. 4. Occurrence. 5. A 
meat pie. 

IV. Right-hand Square: i. Like paste. 2. Burning. 3. 
Paternal ancestors. 4. To entertain with food or drink. 5. Foaming. 

V. Lower Square: i. Uncooked. 2. To worship. 3. Per- 
taining to the sun. 4. To discipline. 5. Yearns. 

"royal tarr." 


I. A girl's nickname. 2. To detest. 3. A title which gave place 
to that of " baron." 4. A species of column whose distinguishing 
feature is the volute of its capital. 5. Upright. robert. 


Primals : 



//-//-/-J --2^/ 


A warrior brave, I seek my home 

From distant Palestine ; 
But seized by treacherous foes, I 'm cast 

In prison walls to pine. 

: Through many lands, in tower and town, 
I seek my master dear; 
In castle strong, at last with joy 
His well-known voice I hear. 

The first name of a Scottish outlaw bold, 
Whose feats in song and story still are told. 

Eyes have I, yet I can not see at all ; 
In heathen lands I worshiped am by all. 

, How fair this lake lies 'neath Italian sky ! 

Sure in your travels you 'II not pass it by. 

, The loveliest woman earth has ever seen ; 
" She looked a goddess and she walked a queen.' 

, This noble king was England's pride and boast 
Ere Norman William conquered Harold's host. 

. If one writes not in prose, nor in blank verse, 
He surely must in this his tale rehearse. 

. If you don't guess this riddle, by and by, 
This adjective to you I must apply. n. 

From i to 2, a surname of Hera or Juno : from 2 to 4, an ancient 
name for the River Tiber ; from i to 3, a name by which the south- 
eastern part of Italy was once known ; from 3 to 4. a name by which 
Minerva is sometimes called ; from 1 to 4, the daughter of Cyrus ; 
from 2 to 3, a division of Greece. a. g. c.'Vimeron. 


Cross-words: t. On this side of the Atlantic Ocean. 2. Con- 
stancy. 3. The daughter of Sithon, King of Thrace. 4. Sufficient. 
5. Very large. 6. incapacity. 7. To_ urge importunately. 8. A 
covering for the head worn by ecclesiastical dignitaries. 9. Inhabi- 
tants of Ionia. 10. Resemblance. 11. A race or people. 

The central letters, reading downward, will spell one belonging to 
a diminutive race. R* V. O. 





(see page 87.) 


Vol. XV. 

DECEMBER, 1887. 

No. 2. 

By Frank R. Stockton. 


ENTURIES ago, there 
stood on the banks 
of a river a Httle town 
called Rondaine. The 
river was a long and wind- 
ing stream which ran 
through different 
countries, and was 
sometimes narrow and 
swift, and sometimes 
broad and placid; some- 
times hurrying through mountain-passes, 
and again meandering quietly through 
fertile plains; in some places of a blue 
color and almost transparent, and in others 
of a dark and somber hue ; and so it 
changed until it threw itself into a warm, 
far-spreading sea. 

But it was quite otherwise with the little town. 
As far back as anybody could remember, it had 
always been the same that it was at the time of our 
story ; and the people who lived there could see no 
reason to suppose that it would ever be different 
from what it was then. It was a pleasant little 
town, its citizens were very happy; and why there 
should be any change in it, the most astute old 
man in all Rondaine could not have told you. 

If Rondaine had been famed for anything at all, 
it would have been for the number of its clocks. 
It had many churches, some little ones in dark side 
streets, and some larger ones in wider thorough- 
fares, besides here and there a very good-sized 
church fronting on a park or open square ; and in 

Copyright, 18S7, by The Cen 

the Steeple of each of these churches there was a 
clock. There were town buildings, very old ones, 
which stood upon the great central square. Each 
of these had a tower, and in each tower was a 
clock. Then there were clocks at street corners, 
and two clocks in the market-place, and clocks 
over shop doors, a clock at each end of the bridge, 
and several large clocks a little way out of town. 
Many of these clocks were fashioned in some quaint 
and curious way. In one of the largest a stone man 
came out and struck the hours with a stone ham- 
mer, while a stone woman struck the half-hours 
with a stone broom ; and in another an iron donkey 
kicked the hours on a bell behind him. It would 
be impossible to tell all the odd ways in which the 
clocks of Rondaine struck ; but in one respect they 
were alike: they all did strike. The good people 
of the town would not have tolerated a clock which 
did not strike. 

It was very interesting to lie awake in the night 
and hear the clocks of Rondaine strike. First 
would come a faint striking from one of the 
churches in the by-streets, a modest sound, as 
if the clock was not sure whether it was too early 
or not ; then from another quarter would be 
heard a more confident clock striking the hour 
clearly and distinctly. When they were quite 
ready, but not a moment before, the seven bells of 
the large church on the square would chime the 
hour; after which, at a respectful interval of time, 
the other church clocks of the town would strike. 
After the lapse of three or four minutes, the sound 
of all these bells seemed to wake up the stone man 

TURY Co. All rights reser\'ed. 




in the tower of the town-building, and he struck 
the hour with his liammer. When tliis had been 
done, the other municipal clocks felt at liberty to 
strike, and they did so. And when every sound 
had died away, so that he would be certain to be 
heard if there was any one awake to hear, it would 
be very likely that the iron donkey would kick out 
the hour on his bell. But there were times when 
he kicked before any of the clocks began to strike. 
One by one the clocks on the street corners struck, 
the uptown ones first, and afterward those near 
the river. These were followed by the two clocks 
on the bridge, the one at the country end waiting 
until it was quite sure that the one at the town 
end had finished. Somewhat later would be heard 
the clock of Vougereau, an old country house in 
the suburbs. This clock, a very large one, was on 
the top of a great square stone tower, and from its 
age it had acquired a habit of deliberation ; and 
when it began to strike, people were very apt to 
think that it was one o'clock, until after a consider- 
able interval another stroke would assure them 
that it was later or earlier than that, and if they 
really wanted to know what hour the old clock was 
striking, they must give themselves time enough 
to listen until they were entirely certain that it had 

The very last clock to strike in Kondaine was 
one belonging to a little old lady with white hair, 
who lived in a little white house in one of the pret- 
tiest and cleanest streets in the town. Her clock 
was in a little white tower at the corner of her 
house, and was the only strictly private clock which 
was in the habit of making itself publicly heard. 
Long after every other clock had struck, and when 
there was every reason to believe that for a consid- 
erable time nothing but half-hours would be heard 
in Rondaine, the old lady's clock would strike 
quickly and decisively, and with a confident tone, 
as if it knew it was right, and wished cverybod)' 
to know that it knew. 

In an unpretentious house which stood on acorner 
of two of the smaller streets in the town lived a 
young girl named Aria. For a year or more, Aria 
had been in the habit of waking up very early in 
the morning, sometimes long before daylight, and 
it had become a habit with her to lie and listen to 
the clocks. Her room was at the top of the house, 
and one of its windows opened to the west and 
another to the south, so that sounds entered from 
different quarters. Aria liked to leave these win- 
dows open so that the sounds of the clocks might 
come in. 

.4rla knew every clock by its tone, and she 
always made it a point to lie awake until she was 
positively sure that the last stroke of the clock at 
Vougereau had sounded ; but it often happened 

that sleep overcame her before she heard the clock 
of the little old lady with white hair. It was so 
very long to wait for that ! 

It was not because she wanted to know the hour 
that Aria used to lie and listen to the clocks. She 
had a little clock of her own, which stood in her 
room and on which she depended for correct 
information regarding the time of day or night. 
This little clock, which had been given to her when 
she was a small girl, not only struck the hours 
and half-hours and quarter-hours, but there was 
attached to it a very pretty piece of mechanism 
which also indicated the time. On the front of the 
clock, just below the dial, was a sprig of a rosebush 
beautifully made of metal, and on this, just after 
the hour had sounded, there was a large green 
bud ; at a quarter past the hour, this bud opened a 
little, so that the red petals could be seen ; fifteen 
minutes later, it was a half-blown rose ; and at a 
quarter of an hour more, it was nearly full blown ; 
just before the hour, the rose opened to its fullest 
extent, and so remained until the clock had 
finished striking, when it immediately shut up into 
a great green bud. This clock was a great delight 
to Aria; for not only was it a very pleasant thing 
to watch the unfolding of the rose, but it was a con- 
tinual satisfaction to her to think that her little 
clock always told her exactly what time it was, no 
matter what the other clocks of Rondaine might 

Aria's father and mother were thrifty, industri- 
ous people, who were very fond of their daughter. 
They not only taught her how usefully to employ 
herself, but insisted that she should take the recre- 
ation and exercise that a young girl ought to have. 
All day she was so occupied with work or play that 
she had little opportunity of thinking for herself; 
but even if they had considered the matter, this 
fact would not have troubled her parents, as they 
looked upon Aria as entirely too young for that 
sort of thing. In the very early morning, however, 
listening to the clocks of Rondaine or waiting for 
them, Aria did a great deal of thinking ; and it so 
happened, on the morning of the day before 
Christmas, when the stars were bright and the air 
frosty, and every outside sound very clear and dis- 
tinct, that Aria began to think of something which 
had never entered her mind before. 

"How in the world," she said to herself, "do 
the people of Rondaine know when it is really 
Christmas ? Christmas begins as soon as it is 
twelve o'clock on Christmas Eve ; but as some of the 
people depend for the time upon one clock and some 
upon others, a great many of them can not truly 
know when Christmas Day has really begun. Even 
some of the church clocks make people think that 
Christmas has come, when in reality it is yet the 




day before. And not one of them strikes at the 
right time ! As for that iron donkey, I beUeve 
he kicks whenever he feels like it. And yet there 
are people who go by him ! I know this, for they 
have told me so. But the little old lady with 
white hair is worse off than anybody else. Christ- 
mas must always come ever so long before she 
knows it." 

With these important thoughts on her mind 
Aria could not go to sleep again. She heard all the 
clocks strike, and lay awake until her own little 
clock told her that she ought to get up. During 
this time she had made up her mind what she 
should do. There was yet one day before Christ- 
mas ; and if the people of the town could be 
made to see in what a deplorable condition they 
were on account of the difference in their clocks, 
they might have time to rectify the matter so that 
all the clocks should strike the correct hour and 
everybody should know exactly when Christmas 
Day began. She was sure that the citizens had 
never given this matter proper consideration ; and 
it was quite natural that such should be the case, for 
it was not every one who was in the habit of lying 
awake in the very early morning ; and in the day- 
time, with all the out-door noises, one could not 
hear all the clocks strike in Rondainc. Aria, 
therefore, thought that a great deal depended 
upon her who knew exactly how this matter stood. 

When she went down to breakfast, she asked 
permission of her mother to take a day's holi- 

day. As she was a good girl, and never neglected 
either her lessons or her tasks, her mother was 
quite willing to give her the day before Christ- 
mas in which she could do as she pleased, and 
she did not think it necessary to ask if she in- 
tended to spend it in any particular way. 

The day was cool, but the sun 
shone brightly and the air was 
pleasant. In the country around 
about Rondaine Christmas-time 
was not a very cold season. Aria 
put on a warm jickct and a pretty 
blue hood and staited out gajl> 
to attend to the busi _ 

nessmhand E\ei)- 
bod) m Rondame 
knew hei father and 
mother, and a great 
many of them knew 
her, so theie was 
no reason why she 
should be afiaid to 
go where she 
chose In 





hand she carried a small covered basket in which 
she had placed her rose clock. The works of this 
little clock were regulated by a balance-wheel, like 
those of a watch, and therefore it could be carried 
about without stopping it. 

tell you that, so that you might change it, and 
make it strike properly." 

The sacristan's eyes began to twinkle. He was 
a man of merry mood. "That is very good of 
you, little Aria : very good indeed. And, now that 


The first place she visited was the church at which 
she and her parents always attended service. It 
was a small building in a little square at the bot- 
tom of a hill, and, to reach it, one had to go down a 
long flight of stone steps. When she entered the 
dimly lighted church. Aria soon saw the sacristan, 
a pleasant-faced little old man whom she knew 
very well. 

" Good-morning, sir," said she. " Do you take 

care of the church 
clock ? " 

The sacristan 
was sweeping the 
stone pavements 
of the church, just 
inside the door. 
He stopped and 
leaned upon his 
broom. "Yes, my 
little friend," he 
said, " I take care 
of everything here 
except the souls of 

"as for that iron donkey, I BELIEVE thC pCOplC. " 
HE KICKS WHEN HE FEELS LIKE IT." ,, ,,, ,, ., ,, 

" Well, then," 
said Aria, "I think you ought to know that your 
clock is eleven minutes too fast. I came here to 

we arc about it, is n't there something else you 
would like to change? What do you say to having 
these stone pillars put to one side, so that they 
may be out of the way of the people when they 
come in ? Or those great beams in the roof — 
they might be turned over, and perhaps we might 
find that the upper side would look fresher than 
this lower part, which is somewhat time-stained, 
as you see? Or, for the matter of that, what 
do you say to having our clock-tower taken down 
and set out there in the square before the church 
door ? Then short-sighted people could see the 
time much better, don't you think ? Now tell me, 
shall we do all these things together, wise little 
friend ? " 

A tear or two came into Aria's eyes, but she 
made no answer. 

'•'Good-morning, sir," she said; and went 

" I suppose," she said to herself as she ran up the 
stone steps, "that he thought it would be too much 
trouble to climb to the top of the tower to set the 
clock right. But that was no reason why he should 
make fun of me. I don't like him as fliuch as I 
used to." 

The next church to which Aria went was a large 
one, and it was some time before she could find the 




sacristan. At last she saw him in a side chapel at 
the upper end of the church, engaged in dusting 
some old books. He was a large man, with a red 
face, and he turned around quickly, with a stern 
e.Kpression, as she entered. 

"Please, sii'," said Aria, " I came to tell you that 
your church clock is wrong. It strikes from four 
to six minutes before it ought to ; sometimes the 
one and sometimes the other. It should be changed 
so that it will be sure to strike at the right time." 

The face of the sacristan grew redder, and 
twitched visibly at her remark. 

" Do you know what I "Je- 

wish ? " he almost shouted in 

" No, sir," answered Aria. 

" 1 wish," he said, " that 
you were a boy, so that I 
might take you by the collar 
and soundly cuff your ears for 
coming here to insult an offi- 
cer of the church in the midst 
of his duties ! But, as you are 
a girl, I can only tell you to 
go away from here as rapidly 
and as quietly as you can, or I shall have to put 
you in the hands of the ecclesiastical authorities ! " 

Aria was truly frightened, and although she did 
not run, — for she knew that would not be proper 


'*'I don't like him as much as I USED TO,' SAID ARLA." 

in a church, — she walked as fast as she could 
into the outer air. 

"What a bad man," she then said to herself 

" to be employed in a church ! It surely is not 
known what sort of person he is, or he would not 
be allowed to stay there a day ! " 

Aria thought she would not go to any more 
churches at present, for she did not know what 
sort of sacristans she might find in them. 

"When the other clocks in the town all strike 
properly," she thought, " it is most likely they will 
see for themselves that their clocks are wrong, and 
they will have them changed." 

She now made her way to the great square of 
the town, and entered the building at the top of 
which stood the stone man with his hammer. She 
found the concierge, or door-keeper, in a little room 
by the side of the entrance. She knew where to 
go, for she had been there with her mother to ask 
permission to go up and see the stone man strike 
the hour with his hammer, and the stone woman 
strike the half-hour with her broom. 

The concierge was a grave middle-aged man 
with spectacles; and, remembering what had just 
happened. Aria thought she would be careful how 
she spoke to him. 

" If you please, sir," she said, with a courtesy, 
" 1 should like to say something to you. And I 
hope you will not be offended when I tell you that 
your clock is not quite right. Your stone man and 
)'our stone woman are both too slow; they some- 
times strike as much as seven minutes after they 
ought to strike." 

The grave middle-aged man looked steadily at 
her through his spectacles. 

"I thought," continued Aria, " that if this should 
be made known to you, you would have the works 
of the stone man and the stone woman altered so 
that they might strike at the right time. They 
can be heard so far, you know, that it is very nec- 
essary they should not make mistakes." 

" Child," said the man, with his spectacles still 
steadily fixed on her, " for one hundred and fifty. 
seven years the open tower 
on this building has stood _, 1 

there. For one hundred 
and fifty-seven years the 
thunder and the lightning 
in time of storm have roar- 
ed and flashed around it, 
and the sun in time of fair 
weather has shone upon it. 
In that century and a half 
and seven years men and 
women have lived and have 
died, and their children 
and their grand-children 
and their great-grandchild- 
ren, and even the children of these, have lived 
and died after them. Kings and queens have 

" the stone MAN STRUCK 

the hour with his ham- 
mer, AND THE stone WOMAN 



passed away, one after another ; and all things 
living have grown old and died, one generation 
after another, many times. And yet, through all 
these years, that stone man and that stone woman 
have stood there, and in storm and in fair weather 
by daylight or in the darkness of night, they have 
struck the hours and the half-hours. Of all 
things that one hundred and fifty-seven years ago 
were able to lift an arm to strike, they alone are 
left. And now you, a child of thirteen, or perhaps 
fourteen years, come to me and ask me to change 
that which has not been changed for a century 
and a half and seven years ! " 

Aria could answer nothing with those spectacles 

fixed upon her. They seemed to glare more and 
more as she looked at them. " Good-morning, 
sir," she said, dropping a courtesy as she moved 
backward toward the door. Reaching it, she 
turned and hurried into the street. 

" If those stone people," she thought, "have 
not been altered in all these years, it is likely 
they would now be striking two or three hours 
out of the way ! But I don't know. If they 
kept on going slow for more than a century, 
they must have come around to the right hour 
sometimes. But they will have to strike ever and 
ever so much longer before they come around 
there again ! " 

(To be concluded.) 


Bv M. M. U. 

There was a little daughter once, whose feet were — oh, so small! 
That when the Christmas Eve came 'round, they would n't do at all. 
At least she said they would n't do, and so she tried another's, 
And folding her wee stocking up, she slyly took her mother's. 

" I 'U pin this big one here," she said, — then sat before the fire. 
Watching the supple, dancing flames, and shadows darting by her, 
Till silently she drifted off to that queer land, you know. 
Of " Nowhere in particular," where sleepy children go. 

She never knew the tumult rare that came upon the roof! 

She never heard the patter of a single reindeer hoof; 

She never knew how Some One came and looked his shrewd surprise 

At the wee foot and the stocking — so different in size ! 

She only knew, when morning dawned, that she was safe in bed. 
" It 's Christmas I Ho ! " and merrily she raised her pretty head ; 
Then, wild with glee, she saw what " dear Old Santa Claus " had done, 
And ran to tell the joyful news to each and every one : 

" Mamma ! Papa ! Please come and look ! a lovely doll, and all ! " 
And " See how full the stocking is I I\line would have been too small. 
I borrowed this for Santa Claus. It is n't fair, you know. 
To make him wait forever for a little girl to grow." 

'She never knew how Some One came and looked his sh-rewd surprise 
At the wee foot and the stocking — so different in size," 


By Mary E. Wilk.ins. 

Cling, clang, — "Whoa, my bonny gray mare! 
Whoa," — chng, clang, — " my bay ! 
But the black and the sorrel must stay unshod, 
While ni) two fair sons arL away ' 


While the blacksmith spake, his fair sons came, Then his brother twinkled his gay black eyes, 
And stood in the smithy door — And he spake up merry and bold : 

' Now where have ye been, my two fair sons, " Hey, Father, we Ve been in the fairy land. 
For your father has missed ye sore ? " Where the horses are shod wi' gold ! " 

■.c- :■'"'. ,^v. 


" An' what did yc there in Fairy-land, 

O my two fair sons, I pray? " 
"We shod for them, Father, their fairy steeds, 

All in a month an' a day. 



' 4&/ / 1 ' ' ■' '' I 'ii . ' '•'l \i '/■ ' '" ■1(1 
V^/'i •:''■' .-v'' '"•,' ."l ■nil;''" 



' all the steeds 

were as white 

as the clear moonlight, 

an' in fields 

o' lilies they fed.' '' 


An', Father, we shod them wi' virgin 

Each nail had a diamond head ; 
All the steeds were as white as the clear 

An' in fields o' lilies they fed." 

An' what was the sum o' the fairy hire, 
O my two fair sons, I pray ? " 
Oh, a seed of a wonderful fairy flower, 
They gave to us each for pay ! " 

Then pleasantly spake the younger son. 
With the eyes of dreamy blue : 
" O Father, we 've been in a land as bright 
As the glint o' the morning dew ! " 

" An' what will ye do wi' the seeds, fair sons ? ' 
"We will sow i' the light, green spring. 

An' may be, a golden rose will toss. 

Or a silver lily will swing." 




IX. XI. 

"Now," — cling, clang, — "whoa, my bonny gray Then the white rains Avove with the long light- 
mare ! beams, 

Whoa," — cling, clang, — " my bay ! Till a stalk, like a slim green flame. 

An' the sorrel an' black, now my sons are back. Pierced the garden mold; a leaf unrolled : 

Can be shod " — cling, clang, — " to-day." And another beside it came. 



Oh, the smith's sons planted the fairy seeds, Then the brothers tended their fairy plants 

When the light, green spring came round. Till they shot up, brave and tall, 

Through the sunlit hours, 'twixt the April And the leaves grew thick. " Now soon shall 

showers, we pick 

In the best of the garden ground ! A rose like a golden ball ; 




' Or else, we shall see a lily, maybe, 
With a bell o' bright silver cast," 
They thought ; and they cried with joy and pride. 
When the blossom-buds shaped at last. 

' Heyday ! I will buy me a brave gold chain. 
An' a waistcoat o' satin fine, 
A rufif o' lace, an' a pony an' chaise, 
An' a bottle o' red old wine ! " 



" Now, heyday ! " shouted the elder son, 
And he danced in the garden walk, 

'A hat I will buy, as a steeple high. 
An' the neighbors will stare an' talk. 

But his brother looked up in the blue spring sky. 
And his yellow curls shone in the sun — 
' O joy ! If I hold but my fairy gold. 
My father's toil is done ! 





• He shall hammer no more with his tired old hands 
He shall shoe not the bay nor the gray ; 
But shall live as he please, an' sit at his ease, 
A-resting the livelong day." 


Then angrily hurried the elder son, 

And hustled his up by the root ; 

And it gave out a sound, as it left the ground, 

Like the shriek of a fairy flute. 


ancjrily liurrie^ the 

u.stlet> hi J ULp by J-he 

i3«:i:a^.RjJ^-^ Tool:, 


Alas, and alas ! When it came to pass 
That the bud to a flower was grown, 
It was pallid and green, — no blossom so mean 
In the country side was known. 


But he flung it over the garden wall. 
And he cried, with a scowling brow : 
' No waistcoat fine, an' no bottle o' wine- 
I have labored for naught, I trow ! " 




"Now," — cling, clang, — "whoa, my bonny But the frost came forth from the still blue 

gray mare ! " 
Cling, clang, — " whoa, my bay ! 
But the sorrel an' white must wait to-night, 
For one son sulks all day." 

And one morning he found it dead ; 
The leaves were black in the white frost-light. 
And the stalk was a shriveled shred. 

Like a. star fi'oirv the . siCieS 
^^'AsSi to Hi's baj^leci eyes 
"Was bla3tn£j a bulb of^old^ 


But the blue-eyed son till the summer was done " Now, never a rose like a golden ball. 

Cared well for his fairy flower ; Nor a silver lily shall blow ; 

He weeded and watered, and killed the grub But never 1 '11 mind, for 1 'm sure to find 

Would its delicate leaves devour. More gold, if 1 work, I know." 




Then he tenderly pulled up the fairy plant, 
And, lo, in the frosty mold, 
Like a star from the skies to his dazzled eyes, 
Was blazin^ a bulb of ^old ! 

"Now," — cling, clang, — "whoa, my bonny gray 
Or gallop or trot, as ye may ! [mare ! 

This happy old smith will shoe ye no more, 
For he sits at his ease, all day ! " 


By Frank Dempster Sherman. 

December 's come, and with her brought 
A world in whitest marble wrought ; 
The trees and fence and all the posts 
Stand motionless and white as ghosts, 
And all the paths we used to know 
Are hidden in the drifts of snow. 
December brings the longest night 
And cheats the day of half its light. 
No bird-song breaks the perfect hush ; 
No meadow-brook with liquid gush 
Runs telling tales in babbling rhyme 
Of liberty and summer-time. 
But frozen in its icy cell 
Awaits the sun to break the spell. 
Breathe once upon the window-glass 
And see the mimic mists that pass, — 

Fantastic shapes that go and come 
Forever silvery and dumb. 

December Santa Claus shall bring, — 
Of happy children happy king. 
Who with his sleigh and rein-deer stops 
At all good people's chimney-tops. 

Then let the holly red be hung. 

And sweetest carols all be sung. 

While we with joy remember them, — 

The journeyers to Bethlehem, 

Who followed trusting from afar 

The guidance of that happy star 

Which marked the spot where Christ was born 

Long vears ago one Christmas morn ! 

By Frances Hodgson Burnett. 

In the first place, Miss Minchin lived in London. 
Her home was a large, dull, tall one, in a large, 
dull square, where all the houses were alike, and 
all the sparrows were alike, and where all the door- 
knockers made the same heavy sound, and on still 
days — and nearly all the days were still — seemed 
to resound through the entire row in which the 
knock was knocked. On Miss Minchin's door there 
was a brass plate. On the brass plate there was 
inscribed in black letters, 

Miss Minchin's 
Select Seminary for Young Ladies. 

Little Sara Crewe never went in or out of the 
house without reading that door-plate and reflect- 
ing upon it. By the time she was twelve, she had 
decided that all her trouble arose because, in the 
first place, she was not " Select," and in the 
second, she was not a " Young Lady." When she 
was eight years old, she had been brought to Miss 
Minchin as a pupil, and left with her. Her papa 
had brought her all the way from India. Her 
mamma had died when she Was a baby, and her 
papa had kept her with him as long as he could. 
And then, finding the hot climate was making her 
very delicate, he had brought her to England and 
left her with Miss Minchin, to be part of the Select 
Seminary for Young Ladies. Sara, who had al- 
ways been a sharp little child, who remembered 
things, recollected hearing him say that he had not 
a relative in the world whom he knew of, and so he 
was obliged to place her at a boarding-school, and 
he had heard Miss Minchin's establishment spoken 
of very highly. The same day, he took Sara out 
and bought her a great many beautiful clothes, — 
clothes so grand and rich that only a very young 
and inexperienced man would have bought them 
for a mite of a child who was to be brought up in 
a boarding-school. But the fact was that he was a 
rash, innocent young man, and very sad at the 
thought of parting with his little girl, who was all 
he had left to remind him of her beautiful mother, 

* Copyrighted, 1887, by Frances Hodgson Burnett. 

Vol. XV.— 7. 97 

whom he had dearly loved. And he wished her 
to have everything the most fortunate little girl 
could have; and so, when the polite saleswomen in 
the shops said, " Here is our very latest thing in 
hats, the plumes are e.xactly the same as those we 
sold to Lady Diana Sinclair yesterday," he imme- 
diately bought what was offered to him, and paid 
whatever was asked. The consequence was that 
Sara had a most extraordinary wardrobe. Her 
dresses were silk and velvet and India cashmere, 
her hats and bonnets were covered with bows and 
plumes, her small undergarments were adorned 
with real lace, and she returned in the cab to Miss 
Minchin's with a doll almost as large as herself, 
dressed quite as grandly as herself, too. 

Then her papa gave Miss Minchin some money 
and went away, and for several days Sara would 
neither touch the doll, nor her breakfast, nor her 
dinner, nor her tea, and xsould do nothing but 
crouch in a small corner by the window and cry. 
She cried so much, indeed, that she made herself 
ill. She was a queer little child, with old-fashioned 
ways and strong feelings, and she had adored her 
papa, and could not be made to think that India 
and an interesting bungalow were not better for 
her than London and Miss Minchin's Select Semi- 
nary. The instant she had entered the house, she 
had begun promptly to hate Miss Minchin, and 
to think little of Miss Amelia Minchin, who was 
smooth and dumpy, and lisped, and was evidently 
afraid of her older sister. Miss Minchin was tall, 
and had large, cold, fishy eyes, and large, cold 
hands, which seemed fishy, too, because they were 
damp and made chills run down Sara's back when 
they touched her, as Miss Minchin pushed her hair 
off her forehead and said : 

"A most beautiful and promising little girl. 
Captain Crewe. She will be a favorite pupil ; 
quite a favorite pupil, I see." 

For the first year she was a favorite pupil ; at 
least she was indulged a great deal more than was 
good for her. And when the Select Seminary 
went walking, two by two, she was always decked 
out in her grandest clothes, and led by the hand, 
at the head of the genteel procession, by Miss 

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Minchin herself. And when the parents of any 
of the pupils came, she was always dressed and 
called into the parlor with her doll ; and she used 
to hear Miss Minchin say that her father was a 
distinguished Indian officer, and she would be 
heiress to a great fortune. That her father had 
inherited a great deal of money, Sara had heard 
before ; and also that some day it would be hers, 
and that he would not remain long in the army, 
but would come to live in London. And every 
time a letter came, she hoped it would say he was 
coming, and they were to live together again. 

But about the middle of the third year a letter 
came bringing very different news. Because he 
was not a business man himself, her papa had 
given his affairs into the hands of a friend he 
trusted. The friend had deceived and robbed 
him. All the inoney was gone, no one knew exactly 
where, and the shock was so great to the poor, 
rash young officer, that, being attacked by jungle 
fever shortly afterward, he had no strength to rally, 
and so died, leaving Sara with no one to take care 
of her. 

Miss Minchin's cold and fishy eyes had never 
looked so cold and fishy as they did when Sara 
went into the parlor, on being sent for, a few days 
after the letter was received. 

No one had said anything to the child about 
mourning, so, in her old-fashioned way, she had 
decided to find a black dress for herself, and had 
picked out a black velvet she had outgrown, and 
came into the room in it, looking the queerest 
little figure in the world, and a sad little figure, too. 
The dress was too short and too tight, her face 
was white, her eyes had dark rings around them, 
and her doll, wrapped in a piece of old black crape, 
was held under her arm. She was not a pretty 
child. She was thin, and had a weird, interesting 
little face, short black hair, and very large green- 
gray eyes fringed all around withheavyblacklashes. 

" I am the ugliest child in the school," she had 
said once, after staring at herself in the glass for 
some minutes. 

But there had been a clever, good-natured little 
French teacher who had said to the music-master: 

" Zat leetle Crewe. Vat a child! A so ogly 
beauty ! Ze so large eyes ; ze so little spirituelle 
face. Waid till she grow up. You shall see ! " 

This morning, however, in the tight, small black 
frock, she looked thinner and odder than ever, and 
her eyes were fixed on Miss Minchin with a queer 
steadiness as she slowly advanced into the parlor, 
clutching her doll. 

" Put your doll down ! " said Miss Minchin. 

" No," said the child, " I won't put her down ; 1 
want her with me. She is all I have. She has 
stayed with me all the time since my papa died." 

She had never been an obedient child. She had 
had her own way ever since she was born, and 
there was about her an air of silent determination 
under which Miss Minchin had always felt secretly 
uncomfortable. And that lady felt even now that 
perhaps it would be as well not to insist on her point. 
So she looked at her as severely as possible. 

" You will have no time for dolls in future," she 
said; " you will have to work and improve yourself, 
and make yourself useful." 

Sara kept the big odd eyes fixed on her teacher 
and said nothing. 

" Everything will be very different now," Miss 
Minchin went on. " I sent for you to talk to you 
and make you understand. Your father is dead. 
You have no friends. You have no money. You 
have no home and no one to take care of you." 

The little pale olive face twitched nervously, but 
the green- gray eyes did not move from Miss 
Minchin's, and still Sara said nothing. 

"What are you staring at?" demanded Miss 
Minchin sharply. "Are you so stupid you don't 
understand what 1 mean ? 1 tell you that you are 
quite alone in the world, and have no one to do 
anything for you, unless I choose to keep you here." 

The truth was. Miss Minchin was in her worst 
mood. To be suddenly deprived of a large sum of 
money yearly and a show pupil, and to find herself 
with a little beggar on her hands, was more than 
she could bear with any degree of calmness. 

" Now listen to me," she went on, " and remem- 
ber what I say. If you work hard and prepare to 
make yourself useful in a few years, I shall let you 
stay here. You are only a child, but you are a sharp 
child, and you pick up things almost without being 
taught. You speak French very well, and in a year 
or so you can begin to help with the younger pupils. 
By the time you are fifteen you ought to be able to 
do that much at least." 

" I can speak French better than you, now," said 
Sara; "I always spoke it with my papa in India." 
Which was not at all polite, but was painfully true ; 
because Miss Minchin could not speak French at 
all, and, indeed, was not in the least a clever per- 
son. But she was a hard, grasping business woman, 
and, after the first shock of disappointment, had 
seen that at very little expense to herself she might 
prepare this clever, determined child to be very use- 
ful to her and save her the necessity of paying large 
salaries to teachers of languages. 

" Don't be impudent, or you will be punished," 
she said. " You will have to improve your man- 
ners if you expect to earn your bread. You are not 
a parlor boarder now. Remember, that if you don't 
please me, and I send you away, you have no home 
but the street. You can go now." 

Sara turned away. 




" Stay," commanded Miss Minchin, " don't you 
intend to thank mc ? " 

Sara turned toward lier. Tlie nervous twitch was 
to be seen again in her face, and she seemed to be 
trying to control it. 

"What for?" she said. 

"For my kindness to you," replied Miss Min- 
chin. "For my kindness in giving you a home." 

Sara went two or three steps nearer to her. Her 
thin little chest was heaving up and down, and she 
spoke in a strange, unchildish voice. 

" You arc not kind," she said. " You are not 
kind." And she turned again and went out of 
the room, leaving Miss Minchin staring after her 
strange, small figure in stony anger. 

The child walked up the staircase, holding 
tightly to her doll ; she meant to go to her bed- 
room, but at the door she was met by Miss Amelia. 

" You are not to go in there," she said. " That 
is not your room now." 

"Where is my room?" asked Sara. 

" You are to sleep in the attic next to the cook." 

Sara walked on. She mounted two flights more, 
and reached the door of the attic room, opened it 
and went in, shutting it behind her. She stood 
against it and looked about her. The room was 
slanting-roofed and whitewashed ; there was a 
rusty grate, an iron bedstead, and some odd 
articles of furniture, sent up from better rooms 
below, where they had been used until they were 
considered to be worn out. Under the skylight 
in the roof, which showed nothing but an oblong 
piece of dull gray sky, there was a battered old red 

Sara went to it and sat down. She was a queer 
child, as I have said before, and quite unlike 
other children. She seldom cried. She did not 
cry now. She laid her doll, Emily, across her 
knees, and put her face down upon her, and her 
arms around her, and sat there, her little black 
head resting on the black crape, not saying one 
word, not making one sound. 

From that day her life changed entirely. Some- 
times she used to feel as if it must be another life 
altogether, the life of some other child. She was a 
little drudge and outcast ; she was given her lessons 
at odd times and expected to learn without being 
taught ; she was sent on errands by Miss Minchin, 
Miss Amelia, and the cook. Nobody took any 
notice of her except when they ordered her about. 
She was often kept busy all day and then sent into 
the deserted school-room with a pile of books to 
learn her lessons or practice at night. She had 
never been intimate with the other pupils, and soon 
she became so shabby that, taking her queer clothes 
together with her queer little ways, they began to 

look upon her as a being of another world than 
their own. The fact was that, as a rule, Miss Min- 
chin's pupils were rather dull, matter-of-fact young 
people, accustomed to being rich and comfortable ; 
and Sara, with her elfish cleverness, her desolate 
life, and her odd habit of fixing her eyes upon 
them and staring them out of countenance, was 
too much for them. 

" She always looks as if she was finding you out," 
said one girl, who was sly and given to making 
mischief. "I am," said Sara, promptly, when she 
heard of it. " That 's what I look at them for. 1 
like to know about people. I think them over after- 

She never madeany mischief herself or interfered 
with any one. She talked very little, did as she was 
told, and thought a great deal. Nobody knew, and 
in fact nobody cared, whether she was unhappy or 
happy, unless, perhaps, it was Emily, who lived in 
the attic and slept on the iron bedstead at night. 
.Sara thought Emily understood her feelings, though 
she was only wax and had a habit of staring her- 
self Sara used to talk to her at night. 

"You are the only friend I have in the world," 
she would say to her. " Why don't you say some- 
thing? Why don't you speak? Sometimes I 'm 
sure you could, if you would try. It ought to make 
you try, to know you are the only thing 1 have. 
If I were you, I should try. Why don't you try ? " 

It really was a very strange feeling she had about 
Emily. It arose from her being so desolate. She 
did not like to own to herself that her only friend, 
her only companion, could feel and hear nothing. 
She wanted to believe, or to pretend to believe, that 
Emily understood and sympathized with her, that 
she heard her even though she did not speak in 
answer. She used to put her in a chair sometimes 
and sit opposite to her on the old red footstool, 
and stare at her and think and pretend about her 
until her own eyes would grow large with some- 
thing which was alrnost like fear, particularly at 
night, when the garret was so still, when the only 
sound that was to be heard was the occasional 
squeak and skurry of rats in the wainscot. There 
were rat-holes in the garret, and Sara detested rats, 
and was always glad Emily was with her when she 
heard their hateful squeak and rush and scratch- 
ing. One of her " pretends " was that Emily was a 
kind of good witch and could protect her. Poor lit- 
tle Sara ! everything was "pretend " with Iicr. She 
had a strong imagination ; there was almost more 
imagination than there was Sara, and her whole 
forlorn, uncared-for child-life was made up of imag- 
inings. She imagined and pretended things until 
she almost believed them, and she would scarcely 
have been surprised at any remarkable thing that 
could have happened. So she insisted to herself 




that Emily understood all about her troubles and answer very often. I never answer when I can 

was really her friend. help it. When people are insulting you, there is 

" As to answering," she used to say, " I don't nothing so good for them as not to say a word — 





just to look at them and tliiiilc. Miss Minchin 
turns pale with rage when I do it, Miss Amelia 
looks frightened, so do the girls. They know you 
are stronger than they are, because you are strong 
enough to hold in your rage and they are not, and 
they say stupid things they wish they had n't said, 
afterward. There 's nothing so strong as rage, 
except what makes you hold it in — that 's stronger. 
It 's a good thing not to answer your enemies. I 
scarcely ever do. Perhaps Emily is more like me 
than I am like myself. Perhaps she would rather not 
answer her friends, even. She keeps it all in her 

But though she tried to satisfy herself with these 
arguments, Sara did not find it easy. When, after 
a long, hard day, in which she had been sent here 
and there, sometimes on long errands, through 
wind and cold and rain ; and, when she came in 
wet and hungry, had been sent out again because 
nobody chose to remember that she was onlya child, 
and that her thin little legs might be tired, and her 
small body, clad in its forlorn too small finery, all 
too short and too tight, might be chilled ; when she 
had been given only harsh words and cold, slighting 
looks for thanks ; when the cook had been vulgar 
and insolent ; when Miss Minchin had been in her 
worst moods, and when she had seen the girls 
sneering at her among themselves and making fun 
of her poor, outgrown clothes, — then Sara did not 
find Emily quite all that her sore, proud, desolate 
little heart needed as the doU sat in her old chair 
and stared. 

One of these nights, when she came up to the 
garret cold, hungry, tired, and with a tempest 
raging in her small breast, Emily's stare seemed 
so vacant, her sawdust legs and arms so limp and 
inexpressive, that Sara lost all control over herself 

" 1 shall die presently ! " she said at first. 

Emily stared. 

'■ I can't bear this ! " said the poor child, tremb- 
ling. ■' 1 know I shall die. I 'm cold. I 'm wet, 1 'm 
starving to death. I 've walked a thousand miles 
to-day, and they have done nothing but scold me 
from morning until night. And because I could 
not find that last thing they sent me for, they 
would not give me any supper. Some men laughed 
at me because my old shoes made me slip down in 
the mud. I 'm covered with mud now. And they 
laughed ! Do you liear ? " 

She looked at the staring glass eyes and com- 
placent wax face, and suddenly a sort of heart- 
broken rage seized her. She lifted her little savage 
hand and knocked Emily off the chair, bursting 
into a passion of sobbing. 

"You are nothing but a Doll!" she cried. 
' ' Nothing but a Doll — Doll — Doll ! You care for 
nothing. You are stuffed with sawdust. You never 

had a heart. Nothing could ever make you feel. 
You are a DoU ! " Emily lay upon the floor, with 
her legs ignominiously doubled up over her head, 
and a new flat place on the end of her nose ; but 
she was still calm, even dignified. 

Sara hid licr face on her arms and sobbed. 
Some rats in the wall began to fight and bite each 
other, and squeak and scramble. But, as I have 
already intimated, Sara was not in the habit of 
crying. After a while she stopped, and when she 
stopped, she looked at Emily, who seemed to be 
gazing at her around the side of one ankle, and 
actually with a kind of glassy-eyed sympathy. Sara 
bent and picked her up. Remorse overtook her. 

" You can't help being a doll," she said, with a 
resigned sigh, "any more than those girls down- 
stairs can help not having any sense. We are 
not all alike. Perhaps you do your sawdust best." 

None of Miss Minchin's young ladies were very 
remarkable for being brilliant ; they were Select, 
but some of them were very dull, and some of them 
were fond of applying themselves to their lessons. 
Sara, who snatched her lessons at all sorts of un- 
timely hours from tattered and discarded books, 
and who had a hungry craving for everything read- 
able, was often severe upon them in her small 
mind. They had books they never read ; she had 
no books at all. If she had always had something 
to read, she would not have been so lonely. She 
liked romances and history and poetry ; she would 
read anything. There was a sentimental house- 
maid in the establishment who bought the weekly 
penny papers, and subscribed to a circulating 
library, from which she got greasy volumes con- 
taining stories of marquises and dukes who invari- 
ably fell in love with orange-girls and gypsies and 
servant-maids, and made them the proud brides 
of coronets ; and Sara often did parts of this maid's 
work, so that she might earn the privilege of 
reading these romantic histories. There was also 
a fat, dull pupil, whose name was Ermengarde St. 
John, who was one of her resources. Ermengarde 
had an intellectual father who, in his despairing 
desire to encourage his daughter, constantly sent 
her valuable and interesting books, which were a 
continual source of grief to her. Sara had once 
actually found her crying over a big package of 

" What is the matter with you? " she asked her, 
perhaps rather disdainfully. 

And it is Just possible she would not have spoken 
to her, if she had not seen the books. The sight 
of books always gave Sara a hungry feeling, and 
she could not help drawing near to them if only 
to read their titles. 

" What is the matter with you ? " she asked. 

"My papa has sent me some more books," 




answered Ermengarde wofully, ''and he expects 
me to read them." 

'•' Don't you like reading? " said Sara. 

'■ I hate it! " rephed Miss Ermengarde St. Jolrn. 
'■ And he will ask me questions when he sees me ; 
he will want to know how much 1 remember ; 
how would _w« like to have to read all those ? " 

" I 'd like it better than anything else in the 
world," said Sara. 

Ermengarde wiped her eyes to look at such a 

" Oh, gracious ! " she e.xclaimed. 

Sara returned the look with interest. A sudden 
plan formed itself in her sharp mind. 

" Look here!" she said. "If you'll lend me those 
books, 1 '11 read them and tell you everything that's 
in them afterward, and 1 '11 tell it to you so that 
you will remember it. 1 know I can. The ABC 
children always remember what I tell them." 

"Oh, goodness!" said Ermengarde. "Do you 
think you could ? " 

" I know 1 could," answered Sara. "1 like to 
read, and I always remember. 1 '11 take care of the 
books, too; they will look just as new as they do 
now, when I give them back to you." 

Ermengarde put her handkerchief in her pocket. 

" If you '11 do that," she said, " and if you '11 
make me remember. I '11 give you — I' II give you 
some money." 

" 1 don't want your money," said Sara, " 1 want 
your books — I want them." And her eyes grew 
big and queer, and her chest heaved once. 

" Take them, then," said Ermengarde; " I wish 
I wanted them, but I am not clever, and my father 
is, and he thinks I ought to be." 

Sara picked up the books and marched off with 
them. But when she was at the door, she stopped 
and turned round. 

" What are you going to tell your father ? " she 

"Oh," said Ermengarde, "he needn't know; 
he '11 think I 've read them." 

Sara looked down at the books ; her heart really 
began to beat fast. 

" 1 won't do it," she said rather slowly, " if you 
are going to tell him lies about it — 1 don't like 
lies. Why can't you tell him 1 read them and 
then told you about them ? " 

" But he wants me to read them," said Ermen- 

"He wants you to know what is in them," said 
Sara ; "and if 1 can tell it to you in an easy way and 
make you remember, I should think he would like 

" He would like it better if I read them myself," 
replied Ermengarde. 

" He will like it, 1 dare say, if you learn any- 

thing in any way," said Sara. " I should, if I 
were your father." 

And though this was not a flattering way of 
stating the case, Ermengarde was obliged to admit 
it was true, and, after a little more argument, gave 
in. And so she used afterward always to hand 
over her books to Sara, and Sara would carry them 
to her garret and devour them ; and after she had 
read each volume, she would return it and tell 
Ermengarde about it in a way of her own. She 
had a gift for making things interesting. Her 
imagination helped her to make everything rather 
like a story, and she managed this matter so well 
that Miss St. John gained more information from 
her books than she would have gained if she had 
read them three times over by her poor stupid little 
self. When Sara sat down by her and began to 
tell some story of travel or history, she made 
the travelers and historical people seem real ; and 
Ermengarde used to sit and regard her dramatic 
gesticulations, her thin little flushed cheeks and 
her shining odd eyes, with amazement. 

" It sounds nicer than it seems in the book," 
she would say. I never cared about Mary, Queen 
of Scots, before, and I always hated the French Rev- 
olution, but you make it seem like a story." 

" It is a story," Sara would answer. " They are 
all stories. Everything is a story — everything in 
this world. You are a story — I am a story — 
Miss Minchin is a story. You can make a story 
out of anything." 

" I can't," said Ermengarde. 

Sara stared at her a minute reflectively. 

" No," she said at last. " I suppose you could n't. 
You are a little like Emily." 

"Who is Emily?" 

Sara recollected herself She knew she was 
sometimes rather impolite in the candor of her re- 
marks, and she did not want to be impolite to a 
girl who was not unkind — only stupid. Notwith- 
standing all her sharp little ways, she had the 
sense to wish to be just to everybody. In the hours 
she spent alone, she used to argue out a great 
many curious questions with herself. One thing she 
had decided upon was, that a person who was 
clever ought to be clever enough not to be unjust 
or deliberately unkind to any one. Miss Minchin 
was unjust and cruel. Miss Amelia was unkind and 
spiteful, the cook was malicious and hasty-tem- 
pered — they all were stupid, and made her despise 
them, and she desired to be as unlike them as pos- 
sible. So she would be as polite as she could to 
people who in the least deserved politeness. 
"Emily is — a person — I know," she replied. 
" Do you like her? " asked Ermengarde. 
" Yes, I do," said Sara. 
Ermengarde examined her queer little face and 



figure again. She did look odd. Slie had on, that 
day, a faded blue plush skirt, which barely covered 
her knees, a brown cloth sacquc, and a pair of 
olive-green stockings which Miss Minchin had 
made her piece out with black ones, so that they 
would be long enough to be kept on. And yet 
Ermengarde was beginning slowly to admire her. 
Such a forlorn, thin, neglected little thing as that, 
who could read and read and remember and tell 
you things so that they did not tire you all out ! A 
child who could speak French, and who had learned 
German, no one knew how! One could not help 
staring at her and feeling interested, particularh- 
one to whonr the simplest lesson was a trouble 
and a woe. 

" Do you like iiu-?" said Ermengarde, finalh', at 
the end of her scrutiny. 

Sara hesitated one second, then she answered: 

•' I like you because you are not ill-natured — 
I like you for letting me read your books — I like 
you because you don't make spiteful fun of me for 
what I can't help. It 's not your fault that " 

She pulled herself up quickly. She had been 
going to say, " that you are stupid." 

" That what?" asked Ermengarde. 

"That you can't learn things quickly. If you 
can't, you can't. If I can, why, I can — that's 
all." She paused a minute, looking at the pluinp 
face before her, and then, rather slowly, one of 
her wise, old-fashioned thoughts came to her. 

" Perhaps," she said, "to be able to learn things 
quickly, is n't everything. To be kind is worth a 
good deal to other people. If Miss Minchin knew 
everything on earth, which she does n't, and if she 
was like what she is now, she 'd still be a detestable 
thing, and everybody would hate her. Lots of 
clever people have done harm and been wicked. 
Look at Robespierre " 

She stopped again, and examined lier compan- 
ion's countenance. 

" Do you remember about him ?" she demanded. 
" I believe you 've forgotten." 

" Well, I don't remember a/l of it," admitted 

" Well," said Sara with courage and determi- 
nation, " 1 '11 tell it to you over again." 

And she plunged once more into the gory 
records of the French Revolution, and told such 
stories of it, and made such vivid pictures of its 
horrors, that Miss St. John was afraid to go to bed 
afterward, and hid her head under the blankets 
when she did go, and shivered until she fell asleep. 
But afterward she preserved lively recollections of 
the character of Robespierre, and did not even 
forget Marie Antoinette and the Princess de Lam- 

"You know they put her head on a pike and 

danced around it," Sara had said; "and she had 
beautiful blonde hair ; and when 1 think of her, I 
never see her head on her body, but always on a 
pike, with those furious people dancing and howl- 

Yes, it was true, to this imaginative child every- 
thing was a story ; and the more books she read, 
the more imaginative she became. One of her 
chief entertainments was to sit in her garret, or 
walk about it, and "suppose" things. On a cold 
night, when she had not had enough to eat, she 
would draw the red footstool up before the empty 
grate, and say in the most intense voice : 

" Suppose there was a great, wide steel grate 
here, and a great glowing fire — a glowing fire — 
with beds of red-hot coal and lots of little dancing, 
flickering flames. Suppose there was a soft, deep 
rug, and this was a comfortable chair, all cushions 
and crimson velvet; and suppose I had a crimson 
velvet frock on, and a deep lace collar, like a child 
in a picture ; and suppose all the rest of the room 
was furnished in lovely colors, and there were book- 
shelves full of books, which changed by magic as 
soon as you had read them ; and suppose there 
was a little table here, with a snow-white cover on 
it, and little silver dishes, and in one there was hot, 
hot soup, and in another a roast chicken, and in 
another some raspberry-jam tarts with criss-cross 
on them, and in another some grapes ; and sup- 
pose Emily could speak, and we could sit and eat 
our supper, and then talk and read ; and then 
suppose there was a soft, warm bed in the corner, 
and when we were tired, we could go to sleep, and 
sleep as long as we liked." 

Sometimes, after she had supposed things like 
these for half an hour, she would feel almost warm, 
and would creep into bed with Emily and fall asleep 
with a smile on her face. 

" What large, downy pillows ! " she would whis- 
per. " What white sheets and fleecy blankets ! " 
And she almost forgot that her real pillows had 
scarcely any feathers in them at all, and smelled 
musty, and that her blankets and coverlid were 
thin and full of holes. 

At another time she would " suppose " she was 
a princess, and then she would go about the house 
with an expression on her face which was a source 
of great secret annoyance to Miss Minchin, because 
it seemed as if the child scarcely heard the spiteful, 
insulting things said to her, or, if she heard them, 
did not care for them at all. Sometimes, while she 
was in the inidst of some harsh and cruel speech. 
Miss Minchin would find the odd. unchildish eyes 
fixed upon her with something like a proud smile 
in them. At such times she did not know that 
Sara was saying to herself; 

" You don't know that you are saying these 




things to a princess, and that if I chose, I could 
wave my hand and order you to execution. I only 
spare you because I am a princess, and you are a 
poor, stupid, old, vulgar thing, and don't know 
any better." 

This used to please and amuse her more than 
anything else : and, queer and fanciful as it was, she 
found comfort in it, and it was not a bad thing for 
her. It really kept her from being made rude and 
malicious by the rudeness and malice of those 
about her. 

" A princess must be polite," she said to her- 
self. And so when the servants, who took their 
tone from their mistress, were insolent and ordered 
her about, she would hold her head erect, and 
reply to them sometimes in a way which made 
them stare at her, it was so quaintly civil. 

" I am a princess in rags and tatters," she would 
think, '■ but I am a princess, inside. It would be 
easy to be a princess if I were dressed in cloth-of- 
gold ; it is a great deal more of a triumph to be 
one all the time when no one knows it. There 
was Marie Antoinette : when she was in prison, 
and her throne was gone, and she had only a black 
gown on, and her hair was white, and they insulted 
her and called her the Widow Capet, — she was a 
great deal more like a queen then than when she 
was so gay and had everything grand. I like her 
best then. Those howling mobs of people did not 
frighten her. She was stronger than they were, 
even when they cut her head off." 

Once when such thoughts were passing through 
her mind, the look in her eyes so enraged Miss 
Minchin that she flew at Sara and boxed her ears. 

Sara wakened from her dream, started a little, 
and then broke into a laugh. 

" What are you laughing at, you bold, impu- 
dent child ! " exclaimed Miss Minchin. 

It took Sara a few seconds to remember she was 
a princess. Her cheeks were red and smarting 
from the blows she had received. 

" I was thinking," she said. 

"Beg my pardon immediately," said Miss Min- 

"I will beg your pardon for laughing, if it was 

rude," said Sara; "but I won't beg your pardon 
for thinking." 

"What were you thinking?" demanded Miss 
Minchin. " How dare you think ? What were you 
thinking ? " 

This occurred in the school-room, and all the 
girls looked up from their books to listen. It 
always interested them when Miss Minchin flew at 
Sara, because Sara always said something queer, 
and never seemed in the least frightened. She was 
not in the least frightened now, though her boxed 
ears were scarlet, and her eyes were as bright as 

" I was thinking," she answered gravely and 
quite politely, "that you did not know what you 
were doing." 

"That I did not know what I was doing!" Miss 
Minchin fairly gasped. 

"Yes," said Sara, "and I was thinking what 
would happen, if I were a princess and you boxed 
my ears — what I should do to you. And I was 
thinking that if I were one, you would never dare 
to do it, whatever I said or did. And I was thinking 
how surprised and frightened you would be if you 
suddenly found out " 

She had the imagined picture so clearly before 
her eyes, that she spoke in a manner which had an 
effect even on Miss Minchin. It almost seemed for 
the moment to her narrow unimaginative mind that 
there must be some real power behind this candid 

"What?" she exclaimed; " found out what ? " 

"' That I really was a princess," said Sara, " and 
could do anything — anything I liked." 

" Go to your room," cried Miss Minchin breath- 
lessly, " this instant. Leave the school-room. At- 
tend to your lessons, young ladies." 

Sara made a little bow. 

" Excuse me for laughing, if it was impolite," 
she said, and walked out of the room, leaving Miss 
Minchin in a rage and the girls whispering over 
their books. 

" I should n't be at all surprised if she did turn 
out to be something," said one of them. " Sup- 
pose she should ! " 

(To be cottiirnted.) 



OU may not believe it, but the 
bear I am going to tell you 
about really had a bank ac- 
count ! Helivedin the woods, 
as most bears do ; but he had 
a reputation which extended 
over all Norway and more 
than half of England. Earls 
and baronets came every summer, with repeating 
guns of the latest patent, and plaids and field-glasses 
and portable cooking-stoves, intent upon killing 
him. But Mr. Bruin, whose only weapons were a 
pair of paws and a pair of jaws, both uncommonly 
good of their kind, though not patented, always 
managed to get away unscathed ; and that was 
sometimes more than the earls and the baronets did. 
One summer the Crown Prince of Germany came 
to Norway. He also heard of the famous bear that 
no one could kill, and made up his mind that he 
was the man to kill it. He trudged for two days 
through bogs and climbed through glens and 
ravines, before he came on the scent of the bear, — 
and a bear's scent, you may know, is strong, and 
quite unmistakable. Finally he discovered some 
tracks in the moss, like those of a barefooted man, 
or, I should rather say, perhaps, a man-footed bear. 
The Prince was just turning the corner of a pro- 
jecting rock, when he saw a huge, shaggy beast 
standing on its hind legs, examining in a leisurely 
manner the inside of a hollow tree, while a swarm 
of bees were buzzing about its ears. It was just 
hauling out a handful of honey, and was smiling 
with a gruesome mirth, when His Royal Highness 
sent it a bullet right in the breast, where its heart 
must have been, — if it had one. But, instead of 
falling down flat, as it ought to have done out of 
deference to the Prince, it coolly turned its back, 
and gave its assailant a disgusted nod over its 
shoulder as it trudged away through the under- 
brush. The attendants ranged through the woods 
and beat the bushes in all directions, but Mr. 

Bruin was no more to be seen that afternoon. It 
was as if he had sunk into the earth ; not a trace of 
him was to be found by either dogs or men. 

From that time forth the rumor spread abroad 
that this Gausdale Bruin (for that was the name 
by which he became known) was enchanted. It 
was said that he shook off bullets as a duck does 
water ; that he had the evil eye, and could bring 
misfortune to whomsoever he looked upon. The 
peasants dreaded to meet him, and ceased to hunt 
him. His size was described as something enor- 
mous, — his teeth, his claws, and his eyes as being 
diabolical beyond human conception. In the 
meanwhile Mr. Bruin had it all his own way in the 
mountains, killed a young bull or a fat heifer for 
his dinner every day or two, chased in pure sport 
a herd of sheep over a precipice ; and as for 
Lars Moe's bay mare Stella, he nearly finished her, 
leaving his claw-marks on her flank in a way that 
spoiled her beauty forever. 

Now Lars Moe himself was too old to hunt ; 
and his nephew was — well, he was not old enough. 
There was, in fact, no one in the valley who was 
of the right age to hunt this Gausdale Bruin. It 
was of no use that Lars Moe egged on the young 
lads to try their luck, shaming them, or offering 
them rewards, according as his mood might hap- 
pen to be. He was the wealthiest man in the 
valley, and his mare Stella had been the apple 
of his eye. He felt it as a personal insult that 
the bear should have dared to molest what be- 
longed to him, especially the most precious of all 
his possessions. It cut him to the heart to see the 
poor wounded beauty, with those cruel scratches 
on her thigh, and one stiff, aching leg done up in 
oil and cotton. When he opened the stable door, 
and was greeted by Stella's low, friendly neighing, 
or when she limped forward in her box-stall and 
put her small, clean-shaped head on his shoulder, 
then Lars Moe's heart swelled until it seemed on 
the point of breaking. And so it came to pass that 




he added a codicil to his will, setting aside five hun- 
dred dollars of his estate as a reward to the man 
who, within sixyearS; should kill the Gausdale Bruin. 

Soon after that, Lars JVIoc died, as some said, 
from grief and chagrin ; though the physician 
affirmed that it was of rheumatism of the heart. 
At any rate, the codicil relating to the enchanted 
bear was duly read before the church door, and 
pasted, among other legal notices, in the vestibules 
of the judge's and the sheriff 's offices. When the 
executors had settled up the estate, the question 
arose in whose name or to whose credit should 
be deposited the money which was to be set 
aside for the benefit of the bear-slayer. No one 
knew who would kill the bear, or if any one would 
kill it. It was a puzzling question. 

" Why, deposit it to the credit of the bear," 
said a jocose executor; "then, in the absence 
of other heirs, his slayer will inherit it. That is 
good old Norwegian practice, though 1 don't know 
whether it has ever been the law." 

" All right," said the other executors, "so long 
as it is understood who is to have the money, it 
does not matter." 

And so an amount equal to $500 was deposited 
in the county bank to the credit of the Gausdalc 
Bruin. Sir Barry Worthington, Bart., who came 
abroad the following summer for theshooting, heard 
the story, and thought it a good one. So, after 
having vainly tried to earn the prize himself, he 
added another $500 to the deposit, with the stipu- 
lation that he was to have the skin. 

But his rival for parliamentary honors, Robert 
Stapleton, Esq., the great iron-master, who had 
come to Norway chiefly to outshine Sir Barry, 
determined that he was to have the skin of that 
famous bear, if any one was to have it, and that, 
at all events, Sir Barry should not have it. So Mr. 
Stapleton added $750 to the bear's bank account, 
with the stipulation that the skin should come to 

Mr. Bruin, in the meanwhile, as if to resent this 
unseemly contention about his pelt, made worse 
havoc among the herds than ever, and compelled 
several peasants to move their dairies to other parts 
of the mountains, where the pastures uere poorer, 
but where they would be free from his depreda- 
tions. If the $1750 in the bank had been meant 
as a bribe or a stipend for good behavior, such 
as was formerly paid to Italian brigands, it cer- 
tainly could not have been more demoralizing in 
its effect ; for all agreed that, since Lars Moe's 
death, Bruin misbehaved worse than ever. 


There was an odd clause in Lars Moe's will 
besides the codicil relating to the bear. It read : 

" I hereby give and bequeath to my daughter Unna, or, in case 
of her decease, to her oldest living issue, my bay mare Stella, as a 
t'.ken that I have forgiven her the sorrow she caused me by her 

It seemed incredible that Lars Moe should wish 
to play a practical joke (and a bad one at that) on 
his only child, his daughter Unna, because she had 
displeased him by her marriage. Yet that was 
the common opinion in the valley when this sin- 
gular clause became known. Unna had married 
Thorkel Tomlevold, a poor tenant's son, and had 
refused her cousin, the great lumber-dealer, Mor- 
ten Janson, whom her father had selected for a son- 

She dwelt now in a tenant's cottage, northward 
in the parish ; and her husband, who was a sturdy 
and fine-looking fellow, eked out a living by hunt- 
ing and fishing. But they surely had no accom- 
modations for a broken-down, wounded trotting 
mare, which could not even draw a plow. It is 
true Unna in the days of her girlhood had been 
very fond of the mare, and it is only charitable to 
suppose that the clause, which was in the body of 
the will, was written while Stella was in her prime, 
and before she had suffered at the paws of the 
Gausdale Bruin. But even granting that, one could 
scarcely help suspecting malice aforethought in the 
curious provision. To Unna the gift was meant to 
say, as plainly as possible, " There, you see what 
you have lost by disobeying your father ! If you 
had married according to his wishes, you would 
have been able to accept the gift, while now you 
are obliged to decline it like a beggar." 

But if it was Lars Moe's intention to convey such 
a message to his daughter, he failed to take into 
account his daughter's spirit. She appeared plainly 
but decently dressed at the reading of the will, and 
carried her head not a whit less haughtily than was 
her wont in her maiden days. She exhibited no 
chagrin when she found that Janson was her fa- 
ther's heir and that she was disinherited. She even 
listened with perfect composure to the reading of 
the clause which bequeathed to her the broken- 
down mare. 

It at once became a matter of pride with her to 
accept her girlhood's favorite, and accept it she 
did ! And having borrowed a side-saddle, she rode 
home apparently quite contented. A little shed, 
or lean-to, was built in the rear of the house, 
and Stella became a member of Thorkel Tomle- 
vold's family. Odd as it may seem, the fortunes of 
the family took a turn for the better from the day 
she arrived ; Thorkel rarely came home without 
big game, and in his traps he caught more than 
any three other men in all the parish. 

" The mare has brought us luck," he said to his 
wife. " If she can't plow, she can at all events pull 




the sleigh to church ; and you have as good a right 
as any one to put on airs, if you choose." 

"Yes, she has brought us blessing," replied 
Unna, quietly; "and we are going to keep her 
till she dies of old age." 

To the children Stella became a pet, as much 
as if she had been a dog or a cat. The little boy 
Lars climbed all over her, and kissed her regularly 
good-morning when she put her handsome head 
in through the kitchen door to get her lump of 
sugar. She was as gentle as a lamb and as in- 
telligent as a dog. Her great brown eyes, with 
their soft, liquid look, spoke as plainly as words 
could speak, expressing pleasure when she was 
patted; and the low neighing with which she 
greeted the little boy, when she heard his footsteps 
in the door, was to him like the voice of a friend. 
He grew to love this handsome and noble animal 
as he had loved nothing on earth except his father 
and mother. 

As a matter of course, he heard a hundred 
times the story of Stella's adventure with the ter- 
rible Gausdale bear. It was a story that never 
lost its interest, that seemed to grow more exciting, 
the oftener it was told. The deep scars of the 
bear's claws in Stella's thigh were curiously ex- 
amined, and each time gave rise to new questions. 
The mare became quite a heroic character, and 
the suggestion was frequently discussed between 
Lars and his little sister Marit, whether Stella 
might not be an enchanted princess who was wait- 
ing for some one to cut off her head, so that she 
might show herself in her glory. Marit thought 
the experiment well worth trying, but Lars had 
his doubts, and was unwilling to take the risk; yet 
if she brought luck, as his mother said, then she 
certainly must be something more than an ordi- 
nary horse. 

Stella had dragged little Lars out of the river 
when he fell overboard from the pier ; and that, 
too, showed more sense than he had ever known a 
horse to have. 

There could be no doubt in his mind that Stella 
was an enchanted princess. And instantly the 
thought occurred to him that the dreadful en- 
chanted bear with the evil eye was the sorcerer, 
and that when he was killed, Stella would resume 
her human guise. It soon became clear to him 
that he was the boy to accomplish this heroic 
deed ; and it was equally plain to him that he 
must keep his purpose secret from all except 
Marit, as his mother would surely discourage 
him from engaging in so perilous an enterprise. 
First of all, he had to learn to shoot ; and his father, 
who was the best shot in the valley, was very will- 
ing to teach him. It seemed quite natural to 
Thorkel that a hunter's son should take readilv to 

the rifle ; and it gave him great satisfaction to see 
how true his boy's aim was, and how steady his 

" Father," said Lars one day, " you shoot so 
well, why have n't you ever tried to kill the Gaus- 
dale Bruin that hurt Stella so badly? " 

"Hush, child! you don't know what you are 
talking about," answered his father ; " no leaden 
bullet will harm that wicked beast." 

"Why not? " 

"I don't like to talk about it, — but it is well 
known that he is enchanted." 

"But will he then live for ever? Is there no 
sort of bullet that will kill him ? " asked the boy. 

" I don't know. I don't want to have anything 
to do with witchcraft," said Thorkel. 

The word " witchcraft " set the boy to thinking, 
and he suddenly remembered that he had been 
warned not to speak to an old woman named 
Martha Pladsen, because she was a witch. Now, 
she was probably the very one who could tell him 
what he wanted to know. Her cottage lay close 
up under the mountain-side, about two miles from 
his home. He did not deliberate long before going 
to seek this mysterious person, about whom the 
most remarkable stories were told in the valley. To 
his astonishment, she received him kindly, gave 
him a cup of coffee with rock candy, and declared 
that she had long expected him. The bullet which 
was to slay the enchanted bear had long been in 
her possession ; and she would give it to him if he 
would promise to give her the beast's heart. He 
did not have to be asked twice for that ; and ofif he 
started gayly with his prize in his pocket. It was 
rather an odd-looking bullet, made of silver, 
marked with a cross on one side and with a lot ot 
queer illegible figures on the other. It seemed to 
burn in his pocket, so anxious was he to start out 
at once to release the beloved Stella from the cruel 
enchantment. But Martha had said that the bear 
could only be killed when the moon was full ; and 
until the moon was full, he accordingly had to 
bridle his impatience. 


It was a bright morning in January, and, as it 
happened, Lars's fourteenth birthday. To his great 
delight, his mother had gone down to the judge's 
to sell some ptarmigans, and his father had gone 
to fell some timber up in the glen. Accordingly 
he could secure the rifle without being observed. 
He took an affectionate good-bye of Stella, who 
rubbed her soft nose against his own, playfully 
pulled at his coat-collar, and blew her sweet, warm 
breath into his face. Lars was a simple-hearted 
boy, in spite of his age, and quite a child at heart. 
He had lived so secluded from all society, and 




breathed so long the atmosphere of fairy tales, 
that he could see nothing at all absurd in what he 
was about to undertake. The youngest son in the 
story-book always did just that sort of thing, and 
everybody praised and admired him for it. Lars 
meant, for once, to put the story-book hero into 
the shade. He engaged little Marit to watch over 

ing surface of the snow, for the mountain was 
steep, and he had to zigzag in long lines before he 
reached the upper heights, where the bear was said 
to have his haunts. The place where Bruin had 
his winter den had once been pointed out to him, 
and he remembered yet how pale his father was, 
when he found that he had strayed by chance 

[see NEXT PAGE.) 

Stella while he was gone, and under no circum- 
stances to betray hiin — all of which Marit solemnly 

With his rifle on his shoulder and his skees * on 
his feet, Lars glided slowly along over the glitter- 

into so dangerous a neighborhood. Lars's heart, 
too, beat rather uneasily as he saw the two heaps 
of stones, called "The Parson," and "The Dea- 
con," and the two huge fir-trees which marked 
the dreaded spot. It had been customary from 

* Norwegian snowshoes. 

1 lO 



immemorial time for each person who passed along 
the road to throw a large stone on the Parson's 
heap, and a small one on the Deacon's ; but since 
the Gausdale Bruin had gone into winter quarters 
there, the stone heaps had ceased to grow. 

Under the great knotted roots of the fir-trees 
there was a hole, which was more than half-covered 
with snow ; and it was noticeable that there was not 
a track of bird or beast to be seen anywhere around 
it. Lars, who on the way had been buoyed up bj- the 
sense of his heroism, began now to feel strangely 
uncomfortable. It was so awfully hushed and 
still round about him ; not the scream of a bird 
— not even the falling of a broken bough was to 
be heard. The pines stood in lines and in clumps, 
solemn, like a funeral procession, shrouded in sepul- 
chral white. Even if a crow had cawed it would 
have been a relief to the frightened boy, — for it 
must be confessed that he was a trifle frightened, — 
if only a little shower of snow had fallen upon his 
head from the heavily-laden branches, he would 
have been grateful for it, for it would have broken 
the spell of this oppressive silence. 

There could be no doubt of it ; inside, under 
those tree-roots slept Stella's foe, — the dreaded 
enchanted beast who had put the boldest of hunters 
to flight, and set lords and baronets by the ears for 
the privilege of possessing his skin. Lars became 
suddenly aware that it was a foolhardy thing he 
had undertaken, and that he would better betake 
himself home. But then, again, had not Witch- 
Martha said that she had been waiting for him ; 
that he was destined by fate to accomplish this 
deed, just as the youngest son had been in the story- 
book. Yes, to be sure, she had said that; and it 
was a comforting thought. 

Accordingly, having again examined his rifle, 
which he had carefully loaded with the silver bul- 
let before leaving home, he started boldly forward, 
climbed upon the little hillock between the two 
trees, and began to pound it lustily with the butt- 
end of his gun. He listened for a moment tremu- 
lously, and heard distinctly long, heavy sighs from 

His heart stood still. The bear was awake ! 
Soon he would ha\'e to face it ! A minute more 
elapsed ; Lars's heart shot up into his throat. He 
leaped down, placed himself in front of the en- 
trance to the den, and cocked his rifle. Three 
long minutes passed. Bruin had evidently gone 
to sleep again. Wild with excitement, the boy 
rushed forward and drove his skee-staff straight 
into the den with all his might. A sullen growl 
was heard, like a deep and menacing thunder. 
There could be no doubt that now the monster 
would take him to task for his impertinence. 

Again the boy seized his rifle; and his nerves. 

though tense as stretched bow-strings, seemed 
suddenly calm and steady. He lifted the rifle 
to his cheek, and resolved not to shoot until he 
had a clear aim at heart or brain. Bruin, though 
Lars could hear him rummaging within, was in 
no hurry to come out. But he sighed and growled 
uproariously, and presently showed a terrible, 
long-clawed paw, which he thrust out through his 
door and then again withdrew. But apparently 
it took him a long while to get his mind clear about 
the cause of the disturbance ; for fully five minutes 
had elapsed when suddenly a big tuft of moss was 
tossed out upon the snow, followed by a cloud of 
dust and an angry creaking of the tree-roots. 

Great masses of snow were shaken from the sway- 
ing tops of the firs, and fell with light thuds upon 
the ground. In the face of this unexpected shower, 
which entirely hid the entrance to the den, Lars 
was obliged to fall back a dozen paces; but, as the 
glittering drizzle cleared away, he saw an enormous 
brown beast standing upon its hind legs, with wide- 
distended jaws. He was conscious of no fear, but 
of a curious numbness in his limbs, and strange 
noises, as of warning shouts and cries, filling his 
ears. Fortunately, the great glare of the sun- 
smitten snow dazzled Bruin ; he advanced slowly, 
roaring savagely, but staring rather blindly before 
him out of his small, evil-looking eyes. Suddenly, 
when he was but a few yards distant, he raised his 
great paw, as if to rub away the cobwebs that ob- 
scured his sight. It was the moment for which 
the boy had waited. Now he had a clear aim! 
Quickly he pulled the trigger ; the shot reverberated 
from mountain to mountain, and in the same in- 
stant the huge brown bulk rolled in the snow, gave 
a gasp, and was dead ! The spell was broken ! The 
silver bullet had pierced his heart. There was a 
curious unreality about the whole thing to Lars. He 
scarcely knew whether he was really himself or the 
hero of the fairy-tale. All that was left for him 
to do irow was to go home and marry Stella, the 
delivered princess. 

The noises about him seemed to come nearer 
and nearer ; and now they sounded like human 
voices. He looked about him, and to his amaze- 
ment saw his father and Marit, followed by two 
wood-cutters, who, with raised axes, were running 
toward him. Then he did not know exactly what 
happened ; but he felt himself lifted up by two 
strong arms, and tears fell hot and fast upon his 

" iVIy boy ! my boy ! " said the voice in his ears, 
" I expected to find you dead." 

" No, but the bear is dead," said Lars, inno- 

" I did n't mean to tell on you Lars," cried Marit, 
" but I was so afraid, and then I had to." 



I I I 

The rumor soon filled the whole valley that the 
great Gausdale Bruin was dead, and that the boy 
Lars Tomlevold had killed him. It is needless to 
say that Lars Tomlevold became the parish hero 
from that day. He did not dare to confess in the 
presence of all this praise and wonder that at heart 
he was bitterly disappointed ; for when he came 
home, throbbing with wild expectancy, there stood 
Stella before the kitchen door, munching a piece 
of bread ; and when she hailed him with a low 
whinny, he burst into tears. But he dared not tell 
any one why he was weeping. 

This story might have ended here, but it has a 
little sequel. The $1750 which Bruin had to his 

credit in the bank had increased to $2290 ; and 
it was all paid to Lars. A few years later. Marten 
Janson, who had inherited the estate of Moe from 
old Lars, failed in consequence of his daring forest 
speculations, and young Lars was enabled to buy the 
farm at auction at less than half its value. Thus 
he had the happiness to bring his mother back to 
the place of her birth, of which she had been 
wrongfully deprived ; and Stella, who was now 
twenty-one years old, occupied once more her 
handsome box-stall, as in the days of her glory. 
And although she never proved to be a princess, 
she was treated as if she were one, during the few 
vears that remained to her. 


Rev. Washington Gladden. 

NE and a half 
for Billing- 
ton ! " 

The speak- 
er was stand- 
ing at the 
ticket window 
Sst^tV^ in the station of 
^ the Great West- 
ern Railway. Evidently 
he was talking about tick- 
ets : the ■' one " was for him- 
self, the "half" for the boy 
who was clinging to the small 
hand-satchel, and looking 
up rather sleepily at the ticket- 
seller's face. 

•When do you wish to go 
to Billington? " inquired 
that official. 

" On the next train : 
eleven o'clock, is n't it ? " asked the traveler. 

" That train does not run Saturday nights ; 
no train leaves here for Billington until to-morrow, 
at midnight ! " 

" But this train is marked 'daily ' in the guide." 
" It was a daily train until last month." 
■' Well, here 's a how-d'ye-do ! " said the tall gen- 
tleman, slowly; only three hours' ride from home, 
on the night before Christmas; and here we are, 
with no help for it but to stay in Chicago all Christ- 
mas Day. How 's that, my son ? " 

" It 's bad luck with a vengeance," answered the 
lad, now thoroughly awake, and almost ready to 
cry, " I wish we had staid at Uncle Jack's." 

" So do I," answered his father. " But there is 
no use in fretting. We are in for it, and we must 
make the best of it. Run and call that cabman 
who brought us over from the other station. I 
will send a message to your mother ; and we will 
find a place to spend our Sunday." 

This was the way it had happened : Mr. Murray 
had taken Mortimer with him on a short business 
trip to Michigan, for a visit to his cousins, and they 
were on their return trip ; they had arrived at Chi- 
cago, Saturday evening, fully expecting to reach 
home during the night. The ticket-agent has ex- 
plained the rest. 

" Take us to the Pilgrim House," said Mr. Mur- 
ray, as he shut the double door of the hansom ; 
and they were soon jolting away over the block 
pavements, across the bridges, and through the 
gayly lighted streets. It was now only ten o'clock, 
and the Christmas buyers were still thronging the 
shops, and the streets were alive with heavily- 
laden pedestrians who had added their holiday pur- 
chases to the Saturday night's marketing, and were 
suffering from the embarrassment of riches. Soon 
the carriage stopped at the entrance of the hotel, 
and the travelers were speedily settled in a second 
story front room, from the windows of which the 
bright pageant of the street was plainly visible. 

While Mortimer Murray is watching the throngs 
below, we will learn a little more about him. He 

I 12 



is a fairly good boy, as boys average ; not a perfect 
character, but bright and capable, and reasonably 
industrious, with no positively mean streaks in his 
make-up. He will not lie ; and he is never posi- 
tively disobedient to his father and mother ; though 
he sometimes does what he knows to be displeas- 
ing to them, and thinks it rather hard to be re- 
proved for such misconduct. In short, he is 
somewhat self-willed, and a little too much inclined 
to do the things that he likes to do, no matter what 
pain he may give to others. The want of consider- 
ation for the wishes and feelings of others is his 
greatest fault. If others fail in any duty toward him, 
he sees it cjuickly and feels it keenly ; if he fails in 
any duty toward others, he thinks it a matter of 
small consequence, and wonders why they are mean 
enough to make such a fuss about it. 

This is not a very uncommon fault in a boy, I 
fear ; and boys who, like Mortimer, are often in- 
dulged quite as much as is good for them, have 
great need to be on their guard against it. 

Before many moments Mortimer wearied of the 
bewildering panorama of the street, and drew a 
rocker up to the grate near which his father was 

"Tough luck, is n't it?" were the words vi-ith 
which he broke silence. 

" For whom, my son ? " 

" For you and me." 

" I was thinking of your mother and of Charley 
and Mabel ; it is their disappointment that troubles 
me most." 

"Yes," said Mortimer, . rather dubiously. In 
his regret at not being able to spend his Christmas 
day at home, he of course had thought of the 
pleasure of seeing his mother and his brother and 
sister and the baby ; but any idea of their feelings in 
the matter had not entered his mind. Only a few 
hours before, in the Murray's home. Nurse with 
the happy baby in her arms had said to Charley 
and Mabel : 

" Cheer up, children, and eat your supper. 
Your papa and Master Mortimer will surely be 
here by to-morrow." 

But Mortimer so many miles away had not heard 
this. Now he glanced up at his father and spoke 
again : 

" When shall we have our Christmas ? " 

" On Monday, probably. We can reach home 
very early Monday morning. We should not have 
spent Sunday as a holiday if we had gone home 
to-night. Our Christmas dinner and our Christ- 
mas-tree must have waited for Monday." 

" Do you suppose that Mother will have the tree 

" I have no doubt of it." 

" My ! I 'd like to know what 's on it ? " 

"Don't you know of anything tliat will be 
on it?" 

" N — no, sir." 

Mortimer's cheeks reddened at the questioning 
glance of his father. He had thus suddenly faced 
the fact that he had come up to the very Eve of 
Christmas without making any preparation to 
bestow gifts upon others. He had wondered much 
what he should recci\'c ; he had taken no thought 
about what he could give. Christmas, in his 
calendar, was a day for receiving, not for giving. 
Every year his father and mother had prompted 
him to make some little preparation, but he had 
not entered into the plan very heartily ; this year 
they had determined to say nothing to him about 
it, and to let him find out for himself how it 
seemed to be only a receiver on the day when all 
the world finds its chief joy in giving. 

Mortimer had plenty of time to think about it, 
for his father saw the blush upon his face, and 
knew that there was no need of further words. 
They sat there silent before the fire for some time ; 
and the boy's face grew more and more sober and 

" What a pig I have been ! " he was saying to 
himself. " Never thought about getting anything 
ready to hang on the tree ! Been so busy in school 
all last term ! But then I 've had lots of time for 
skates and tobogganing, and all that sort of thing. 
Wonder why they did n't put me up to think about 
it ! P'raps they 'd say I 'm big enough to think 
about it myself. Guess I am. I 'd like to kick 
myself, anyhow ! " 

With such discomforting meditations, Mortimer 
peered into the glowing coals; and while he mused, 
the fire burned not only before his feet but within 
his breast as well — the fireof self-reproof that gave 
the baser elements in his nature a wholesome 
scorching. At length he found his pillow, and 
slept, if not the sleep of the just, at least the sleep 
of the healthy twelve-year-old boy, which is gener- 
ally quite as good. 

The next morning, Mortimer and his father rose 
leisurely, and after a late breakfast walked slowly 
down the avenue. The air was clear and crisp, 
and the streets were almost as full of worshipers as 
they had been of shoppers the night before ; the 
Christmas services in all the churches were calling 
out great congregations. The Minnesota Avenue 
Presbygational Church, which the travelers sought, 
welcomed them to a seat in the middle aisle ; and 
Mortimer listened with great pleasure to the beau- 
tiful music of the choir, and the hearty singing of 
the congregation, and tried to follow the minister 
in the reading and in the prayer, though his 
thoughts wandered more than once to that uncom- 
fortable subject of which he had been thinking the 



night before ; and he wondered whether his father 
and mother and the friends who knew him best 
did really think him a mean and selfish fellow. 

When the sermon began, Mortimer fully deter- 
mined to hear and remember just as much of it as 

Vol. XV.— 8. 

he could. The text was those words of the Lord 
Jesus that Paul remembered and reported for us, 
" It is more blessed to give than to receive." And 
Doctor Burrows began by saying that everybody 
believed that, at Christmas-time ; in fact, they 




knew it ; they found it out by experience ; and 
that was what made Christmas the happiest day of 
the year. Mortimer blushed again, and glanced 
up at his father; but there was no answering 
glance ; his father's eyes were fixed upon the 
preacher. The argument of the sermon was a 
little too deep for Mortimer, though he under- 
stood parts of it, and tried hard to understand it all ; 
but there was a register in the aisle near by, and 
the church was very warm, and he began looking 
down, and after awhile the voice of the preacher 
ceased, and he looked up to see what was the 
matter, and there, in the pulpit, was — who was it? 
Could it be? It was a very small man, with long 
white hair and beard, and ruddy cheeks, and 
sparkhng eyes, and brisk motions. Yes ; Mortimer 

had quite made up his own mind that it must be he, 
when a boy by his side, whom he had not noticed 
before, whispered : 

" Santa Claus ! " 

This was very queer indeed. At least it seemed 
so at first ; but when Mortimer began to re.ison 
about it, he saw jt once that Santa Claus, being a 
saint, had a perfect right to be in the pulpit. But 
soon this did not seem, after all, very much like a 
pulpit ; it had changed to a broad platform, and 
the rear was a white screen against the wall ; and in 
place of a desk was a curious instrument, on a 
tripod, looking something like a photographer's 
camera and something like a stereopticon. 

Santa Claus was standing by the side of this 

instrument, and was just beginning to speak when 
Mortimer looked up. This was what he heard : 

" Never heard me preach before, did you ? No. 
Talking is not my trade. But the wise man says 
there 's a time to speak as well as a time to keep 
silence. I 've kept my mouth shut tight for several 
hundred years ; now I 'm going to open it. But 
my sermon will be illustrated. See this curious 
machine ? " and he laid his hand on the instru- 
ment by his side; "it's a wonder-box; it will 
show you some queer pictures — queerest you ever 

" Let's see 'em ! " piped out a youngster from 
the front seats. The congregation smiled and 
rustled, and Santa Claus went on : 

'• Wait a bit, my little man. You 'II see all you 
want to see very soon, and may be more. I 've been 
in this Christmas business now for a great many 
years, and I 've been watching the way people take 
their presents, and what they do with them, and 
what effect the giving and the taking has upon the 
givers and takers ; and I have come to the conclu- 
sion that Christmas certainly is not a blessing 
to everybody. Of course it is n't. Nothing in the 
world is so pure and good that somebody does not 
per\'ert it. Here is father-love and mother-love, 
the best things outside of heaven ; but some of 
you youngsters abuse it by becoming selfish and 
greedy, and learning to think that your fathers 
and mothers ought to do all the work and make all 
the sacrifices, and leave you nothing to do but to 
have a good time." 

Just here Mortimer felt his cheeks reddening 
again, and he coughed a little, and opened a hymn- 
book and held it up before his face to hide his 

" So the fact that Christmas proves a damage to 
many is nothing against Christmas," Santa Claus 
continued; " but the fact that some people are hurt 
by it more than they are helped is a fact that you 
all ought to know. And as Christmas came this 
year on Sunday, it was my chance to give the 
world the benefit of my observations, and there 
could n't be a better place to begin than Chicago, 
so here I am." 

This last statement touched the local pride of 
the audience, and there was a slight movement of 
applause ; at which the small boys in front, who 
had begun to grow sleepy, rubbed their eyes and 
pricked up their ears. 

" There is one thing more," said the preacher, 
" that I want distinctly understood. I am not the 
bringer of all the Chrislmns gifts." Here a little 
girl over in the corner under the gallery looked up 
to her mother and nodded, as if to say, "I told 

you so ! 

No ; there are plenty of presents that 

people say were brought by Santa Claus, with which 




Santa Claus had nothing at all to do. There are 
some givers whose presents I would n't touch ; they 
would soil my fingers or Ijurn them. There are 
■some takers to whom I would give nothing, because 
they don't deserve it, and because everything that 
is given to them makes them a little meaner than 
they were before. Oh, no ! You must n't believe 
all you hear about Santa Claus ! He doesn't do 
all the things that are laid to him. He is n't a 

" And now I 'm going to show you on this 
screen some samples of different kinds of presents. 
I have pictures of them here, a funny kind of 
pictures, as you will see. Do you know how I got 
the pictures ? Well, I have one of those little 
detective cameras — did you ever see one ? — that 
will take your portrait a great deal quicker than 
you can pronounce the first syllable of Jack Robin- 
son. It is a little box with a hole in it, and a slide, 
that is worked with a spring, covering the hole. 
You point the nozzle of it at anybody, or anything, 
.and touch the spring with your thumb, and, click ! 
you have it — the ripple of the water, the flying 
■feet of the racer, the gesture of the talker, the 
puff of steam from the locomotive, the unfinished 
bark of the dog. I 've been about with this detec- 
tive, collecting my samples of presents, and now 
I 'm going to exhibit them to you here by means 
of my Grand Stereoscopic Moral Tester, an instru- 
ment that brings out the good or the bad in any- 
thing, and sets it before your eyes as plain as 
day. You will first see on the screen the thing 
itself, just as it looks to ordinary eyesight ; then I 
■shall turn on my jeonian light through my ethical 
lens, and you will see how the same thing looks 
when one knows all about it, where it came from, 
.and why it was given, and how it was received. 

" First, I shall show you one or two of those 
presents that I said I would n't touch. Here, for 
■ example, is an elegant necklace that I saw a man 
buying for his wife in a jewelry store yesterday ; 
I caught it as he held it in his hands. There ! 
•is n't it a beauty? Links of solid gold, clasp set 
■with diamonds; would you like it, girls?" 

" H'm ! My ! Is n't it a daisy ! " murmured 
the delighted children, as they gazed on the bright 

"Don't be too sure!" cried the preacher. 
" Things are not always what they seem. Look ! " 

A new light of strange brilliance now lit up the 
pictures, and every link of that golden chain was 
transformed into an iron fetter that fastened 
a woman's wrist, — a woman's wrist that vainly 
strove to release from its imprisonment a woman's 
hand. The chain itself was a great circle of 
women's hands, — wan, cramped, emaciated, piti- 
'.ful hands, — each one holding a needle, each one 

clutching helplessly the empty air. Within this 
circle suddenly sprung to view a little group — 
a woman, bending by the dim light of a winter 
afternoon over a garment in her hands, and two 
pale children lying near her on a pallet covered 
with rags, while the scanty furniture of the room 
betokened the most bitter poverty. It was evident 
enough that the poor creatures were famishing ; 
the hopeless look on the mother's face, as she 
plied her needle with fierce and anxious speed, 
glancing now and then at the sleeping children, 
was enough to touch the hardest heart ; a low 
murmurof pitiful exclamationran around the room, 
and there were tears in many eyes. 

" She is only one of them," cried Santa Claus. 
"There are four hundred just like her, working 
for the man who bought this necklace for his wife 
yesterday ; it is out of their life-blood that he is 
coining his gold. And to think that such a man 
should take the money that he makes in this way 
to buy a Christmas present. Ugh ! What has 
such a man to do with Christmas ? " And the 
good saint shook his fist and stamped his feet in 
holy wrath. Then the group faded, leaving what 
looked like a great blood-stain in its place ; but 
that, in its turn, shortly disappeared, and the white 
screen waited for another picture. 

" 1 have many pictures that are even more pain- 
ful than this," said the preacher, " but I am not 
going to let you see any more of them. I only 
want you to know how the rewards of iniquity look 
in the jeonian light. There are a few more pict- 
ures, less terrible to see, but some of them will be 
a little unpleasant for some of you, I fear. Here 
is a basket of fruit; it looks very tempting, at 
first ; but let the true light strike it. There ! now 
you see that it is all decayed and withered. It is 
really as bitter and disgusting as it now looks. It 
was given, this morning, by a young man to a 
politician. The young man wants an office. That 
was why he made this present. A great many 
so-called Christmas presents are made for some 
such reason. Not a particle of love goes with 
them. They are smeared all over with selfish- 
ness. Christmas presents ! Bah ! Is this the spirit 
of Christmas ? 

" But here is one of a different sort." 

A pretty crimson toilet-case now appeared upon 
the screen. 

" Elegant, is it not? Now see how it looks to 
those who live in the asonian light." 

The crimson plush slowly changed to what 
looked like rather soiled canton flannel, and the 
carved ivory to clumsily whittled bass-wood. 

" What is the matter with this ? I shall not tell 
you who gave it, nor to whom it was given ; it is 
no real wrong-doing on the part of the giver that 




makes the gift poor ; it is only because the gift 
represents no effort, no sacrifice, no thoughtful 
love. In fact, the one who gave it got the money 
to bu)' it with from the one who received it. There 
are a great many Christmas presents of this sort : 

with painstaking labor and self-denial. Now I 'm. 
going to show you another, which will enable you 
to get the idea." 

It was a little picture-frame of cherry wood rather 
rudely carved, that now appeared upon the screen. 


it is n't best to say any hard words about them ; 
but you see that they are not, really, quite so 
handsome as they look. Nothing is really beauti- 
ful, for a Christmas present, that does not prove a 
personal affection, and a readiness to express it 

" The boy who made this for his mother works 
hard every day in school and carries the evening 
papers to help with the family expenses ; he carved 
this at night, when he could gain a little time from 
his lessons, because he could n't afford the money 




to buy anything, and because he thought his 
mother would be better pleased with something 
that he himself had made. You think it does n't 
amount to much, don't you ? Well, now look ! " 

The transfiguring light flashed upon the screen, 
and the little cherry frame expanded to a great and 
richly ornamented frame of rosewood and gold, fit 
to hang upon the walls of a king's palace ; and 
there, in the space that before was vacant, sur- 
rounded by all that beautiful handiwork, was the 
smiling face of a handsome boy. 

The people, old and young, forgot that they were 
in church and clapped their hands vigorously, 
Santa Claus himself joining in the applause and 
moving about the platform with great glee. 

" Yes! " he cried, "that 's the boy, and that's the 
beauty of this little frame of his; the boy is in it ; 
he put his love into it, he put himself into it, when 
he made it ; and when you see it as it really is, you 
see him in it. And that 's what makes any Christ- 
mas present precious, you know ; it comes from 
your heart and life, and it touches the heart and 
quickens the love of the one to whom it is given. 

" I have a great number of presents of this sort 
that 1 should like to show you if I had time. Here, 
for instance, is a small glass inkstand that a little 
boy gave his father. It is one of half a dozen 
presents that he made ; it cost only a dime or two, 
and you think it is not worth much ; but now, when 
I turn the truth-telling light upon it, you see what 
it is — a vase of solid crystal, most wonderfully 
engraved with the richest designs. The boy did 
not make this with his own hands, but he gained 
every cent that it cost by patient, faithful, un- 
complaining labor. He begged the privilege of 
earning his Christmas money in this way, and 
right honestly he earned it; leaving his play, 
whenever he was summoned for any service, with- 
out a word of grumbling, and taking upon him- 
self many little labors and cares that would have 
burdened his father and mother. When he took 
his money and went out to spend it the day before 
Christmas, he was happy and proud, because he 
could fairly call it his own money ; and the presents 
that he bought with it represented him. 

" And now there is only one thing more that I 
shall show you, but that is a kind of thing that is 
common, only too common I 'm afraid. It is a 
present that was all beautiful and good enough till 
it left the hands of the giver, but was spoiled by 
the receiver. Here it is." 

A silver cup, beautifully chased and lined with 
gold, now came into view. 

"A boy whom I know found this in his stocking 
this morning. He was up bright and early; he 
pulled the presents out of his stocking rather 
greedily ; he wanted to see whether they had 

bought for him the things he had been wishing 
for and hinting about. Some of them were there 
and some were not ; he was almost inclined to 
scold, but concluded that he might better hold his 
tongue. But this boy had made no presents at 
all. He is one of the sort that takes all he can 
get, but never gives anything. This is what 
Christmas means to him. It is a time for getting, 
not for giving. And I want you to see how this 
dainty cup looked, as soon as it got into his greedy 

Again the revealing light fell upon the cup and 
its beauty and shapeliness disappeared, and it was 
nothing but a common pewter mug, all tarnished 
and marred, and bent out of form. 

"There!" cried the preacher; "that is the 
kind of thing that is most hateful to me. It hurts 
me to see lovely things fall into the hands of selfish 
people, for such people can see no real loveliness 
in them. It is love that makes all things lovely ; 
and he who has no love in his own heart can dis- 
cern no love in anything that comes into his hands. 
What does Christmas mean to such a one ? What 
good does it do him ? It does him no good ; it 
does him harm, every time. Every gift that he 
gets makes him a little greedier than he was before. 
That is the way it works with a certain kind of 
Sunday-school children. They come in, every 
year, just before Christmas, only because they hope 
to get something ; they take what they can get, 
and grumble because it is n't more, and go away, 
and that 's the last of them till Christmas comes 
around again. That 's what they think of Christ- 
mas. They think it is a pig's feast. Precious 
little they know about it. I know them, thous- 
ands of them ! But they never get anything from 
me, — never! They think they do, but that's a 
mistake ! I don't like to see my pretty things 
marred and spoiled like this cup. I 'm not going 
to give to those who are made worse by receiving. 

" No ! I can do better. I can find people 
enough to whom it is wortli while to give Christ- 
mas gifts because there is love in their hearts ; and 
the gift of love awakens more love. Those who 
know the joy of giving are made better by receiv- 
ing. And there are hosts of them, too, millions 
of them ; tens of millions, I believe ; more this 
Christmas than ever before since the Babe was 
born in Bethlehem ; people whose pleasure it is to 
give pleasure to others ; good-willers, cheerful 
workers, loving helpers, generous hearts, who 
have learned and remembered the words of the 
Lord Jesus, how he said, ' It is moi"e blessed to 
give than to receive.' " 

Through all this part of Santa Claus's sermon 
Mortimer had known that his face was growing 
redder and redder ; he was sure that the eyes of 



all the people in the church were being fixed on 
him ; he felt that he could not endure it another 
moment, and he caught up his hat and was going 
to rush out of the building, when suddenly the voice 
was silent, and he looked up to see what it meant — 
and Santa Claus was not there ; it was Doctor Bur- 
rows again, and he was just closing the Bible and 
taking up the hymn-book. Mortimer glanced about 
him and drew a long breath of relief. 

As they walked back to the hotel, Mr. Murray 
asked Mortimer how he liked the sermon. 

" Which sermon? " asked Mortimer. 

"Why, Dr. Burrows's sermon, of course." 

"Oh, yes; 1 forgot. It was a good sermon, 
was n't it ? " 

"Excellent. What was the te.xt ? " 

" 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.' 
Was n't that the way he ended up ? " asked Morti- 
mer, brightening. 

" It was." 

" I thought so." 

" Thought so ; did n't you hear it ? " 

"Yes, 1 heard that. But — I was hearing — 
something else about that time, and I was n't sure." 

" What else did you hear?" 

"Lots. P'raps 1 '11 tell you some time," replied' 
the lad. 

Mr. Murray did not press the question, and 
Mortimer was silent. All that day and the next 
Mortimer seemed to have much serious thinking to 
do ■ he was a little reluctant to take his Christmas 
prcL.nts, and he received them at last with a ten- 
der gratitude that he had never shown before. 

" It must have been Dr. Burrows's sermon," said 
Mr. Murray to his wife as they were talking it over 
the next night. "I did n't think Mortimer could 
get much out of it ; in fact I thought he was asleep 
part of the time, but it seems to have taken hold of 
him in the right wa)-. It was a good sermon and 
a practical one. I 'm going to ask our minister to 
exchange some time with Dr. Burrows." 

" I uish he would," said Mrs. Murray. 

That was the way Mr. and Mrs. Murray looked 
at it. But I think that if they had asked Mortimer, 
Mortimer could have told them that it would be a 
much better idea to suggest to their minister that 
he exchange some time with the Reverend Doctor 
Santa Ciaus. 


f I 'erscs Stut -with bluets to a little girl. ) 

By Edith M. Thojias. 

Afield I met a darling crowd 
Of blossom-children sweet ; 

(Dear Mother Nature must be proud. 
These children keep so neat,) 

So thick they stood, I cried aloud, 
" I dare not move my feet ! " 

Their dresses all were like the sky 
When light clouds film the blue ; 

And each one had a sunny eye, 
And Heaven-secrets knew ; 

But some, not wide awake, or shy. 
Their heads bent down from view. 

I touched the tallest in a row : 

" Dear heart ! your name I 'd call, 

If you your name would please to show." 
A voice came faint and small : 

" My name I truly do not know ; 
I 'm Innocence, — that 's all ! " 

Now, there 's a child-flower soft and bright^ 

And Innocence is she; 
I thought these blossom-children might 

Her very sisters be ; 
And so I sent them, blue and white. 

To Dorothea G. 

Che delated Barber 


h-y ^i^A«z«K;^y . 

TKis BarJoer ^vilh hhe. joleine-leiry coctl J) 

Has Just i-nissecl tne ^:3o n^ornmg boetl . 

A'x^ill clespair. 
Tor he cannot cut 
tncir nair, 

\JLmess he- finds a tub or son^ethm^ thai A/ViU floal 

By Amelie Rives. 

Too cold it was to ride or walk ; 
A little elf swung on a marigold stalk, 
The marigold flowers were fallen and dead, 
The marigold flowers were shrouded in snow, 

A bitter wind rushed to and fro. 

And all the violets were a-bed. 

The little elf's nose was sorry and blue, 
But the little elf's self was jolly all through ; 

And as he swung from side to side, 
He sang this song with an air of pride : 

" Out o' the wool o' the chestnut-ljuds 
My Minnie spun my hose and jerkin ; 
Of a bat's wing made my cloak. 
Warm enough to wrap a Turk in ; 
Lined them all with thistle-down, 
Gathered when the pods were brown ; 
Trimmed them with a rabbit's fur. 
Left upon a cockle-bur ; 

" Yet, in spite o' everything. 
Much I fear that cold 1 be. 
Ha ! ha ! the Spring ! Ho ! ho ! the Spring ! 
The merry, merry Spring for mc !" 


By J. T. Trowbridge. 

IGHT had set in when 
the Hart boys arrived 
with their tutor at 
Salt Lalce City, and 
they went to their 
beds immediately — 
in an old, rambling 
and rather dilapi- 
dated hotel, — with 
anything but agreea- 
ble first impressions 
of the famous Mormon town of Utah. 

Their opinion of it changed, however, when the 
light, shining in at their windows, awoke them the 
next morning ; and they looked out from the midst 
of the beautiful valley in which the city rests, over 
the roofs, and the rows of trees that shade its 
streets, and saw the sunshine on the glittering 
peaks of the snow-capped mountains around. 

" I had no idea that the Mormons could get up 
anything so fine as this ! " exclaimed Roland, 
breathing the fresh air at the open casement, and 
gazing with delight at the thin, vapory clouds 
floating along the mountain-sides, the gorges full 
of purple mists, and the snowy summits gleaming 
over all. 

"The Mormons know a good thing when they 
see it," replied his cousin Dean, as he slipped his 
suspenders upon his shoulders. "When the old 
leaders discovered this valley in the desert, I don't 
know how many years ago, at the time when they 
were looking for a new seat of empire, where they 
could build up a great nation, outside of our 
civilization — " 

"Bah ! don'tbe eloquent now ! " Roland laughed. 
"Or is it poetry you 're making? 

' Where they could build up a nation 
Outside of our civilization ! 

Why, I did n't think you were capable of that." 

" I felt that I was wading in rather deep lan- 
guage," said Dean. " If 1 made a rhyme, put it in 
your note-book ; for 1 shall probably never make 
another. To tell the truth, 1 was thinking what 
the Duke would say on the occasion ; 1 was speak- 
ing as his proxy," 

" The Duke" was the title, or nickname which 
the boys had bestowed in boy-fashion upon their 
tutor, "plain Mr." Wellington, whom they now 
heard stirring in the next room. 

In five minutes they were knocking at his door, 
before which the hotel porter had lately set down 
a pair of dapper Ijoots in the highest state of 

"Well, young gentlemen," the tutor said, as 
they entered, speaking under the flapping folds of 
a damp towel, with which he was making the bald 
top of his head shine, " you 're stirring early ; 
what are you going to do with yourselves before 
breakfast? " 

" We thought we would go out and take a little 
stroll," replied Roland. 

" See the town," his cousin Dean added, "and 
perhaps chuck a stone or two into the famous Great 
Salt Lake." 

The Duke stopped polishing his head, with his 
thin side-locks straggling all over it, and the towel 
in his two hands, and looked at the boy with a sort 
of mournful astonishment. 

" Permit me to ask," he said, with a smile of sad 
humor, in which he was apt to indulge when either 
of his pupils blundered, "about how far can you 
'chuck' a stone, — as you term the simple act, I 
suppose, of throwing? " 

Dean knew at once that he had said some- 
thing ridiculous, but could n't conceive what. He 
laughed as he looked around in a questioning way 
for a hint from Roland ; but his cousin's ruddy 
face gave no sign. 




" I don't know ; I never measured the distance," 
he replied. 

" Eighteen yards ? " inquired the tutor. 

" Oh, more than that ! " 

'• Eighteen miles ?" 

"Well! hardly so far," Dean answered, blush- 
ing and laughing. 

" I thought not," remarked the tutor quietly. 
" But allow me to say that you will have to throw 
a stone that distance if you expect to make a plash 
with it in the lake before breakfast this morning." 

"What!" said Roland, with a disappointed 
look, "I thought the lake was one of the things 
we came here to see." 

"That is true," the tutor replied. "But to 
visit it we have to take a little journey of some- 

" Not before breakfast this morning," replied 
the tutor. "Go and enjoy your walk now, and 
get an appetite. You may stroll on the banks of 
the Jordan, if not on the shores of this Mormon 
Dead Sea." 

" The Jordan ? " queried Dean. 

" That is the name the saints have given to the 
river which flows from Utah Lake into Great Salt 
Lake from tlie south. You 'd better read up 
about it in the guide-books. Bear River flows into 
it from the north, and other streams contribute 
their fresh waters to this great inland sea." 

"How about those that flow out of it?" Dean 
asked, turning the pages of a little railroad guide- 
book which he picked up from the table. 

"The lake has no outlet; the waters of the 



thing like eighteen miles. Though I suppose it mountain streams fall into that great basin and 

is n't so far as that to the nearest shore, as a bird are at rest ; they sleep the sleep of death," said 

flies." the tutor, "or ascend to heaven by evaporation," 

" Or as you chuck a stone," said Roland mer- he added with a touch of poetry, with which he 

rily, nudging his cousin. "When shall we take sometimes liked to adorn his discourse. "There's 

the little journey to the lake, sir? " he inquired. a thought for you, boys ; consider it." 




" The lake must be very much larger than I 
thought, to take in the rivers without overflowing 
its banks," observed Roland. 

" In spring, when the mountain snows are melt- 
ing, the lake sometimes spreads over the plains 
that border its shores. But it is a large lake at 
any time ; about ninety miles in length, I believe, 
and forty miles wide. An immense sheet of water ! 
.\nd no living thing can exist in it. Not a fish in 
all that silent sea ! It is the heaviest sort of brine, 
charged with salt and other mineral substances. 
Leave a stick in it a few hours, and when you take 
it out it will appear covered with crystals. Put a 
live trout in it, and it Avill turn over on its back 
and die in about three or four gasps. It is a won- 
derful lake," added the tutor, before the glass, 
arranging his hair so as to conceal the bald spot 
on his crown. 

" I should say so," cried Dean, with his eyes 
fixed with keen interest on the pages of the guide- 
book. And he read aloud : 

"'And the lake itself! Always mysterious, it 
appeals to the imagination of every traveler. It 
sleeps forever. No waves dance over it, no surf 
ever breaks the stillness of its melancholy shores.' 
I am going to have a bath in that lake ! " he ex- 
claimed, giving the page an enthusiastic slap. 

" They say a person can't sink in it, owing to 
the heaviness of the water," said Roland, who 
was not a good swimmer. " So there 's no danger 
of drowning." 

" Danger there is, nevertheless," said the tutor. 
"The water is so buoyant that it is hard to keep 
the limbs submerged. \Jp they come to the sur- 
face, in spite of you, and down go your features 
into the brine, if you are not careful. Then 
strangulation — the liquid (you can hardly call 
it water), taken into the throat or nostrils, pro- 
duces most painful results. A friend of mine, a 
lady, nearly perished in it once, and was distress- 
ingly ill for several days from the effect of an 
involuntary plunge." 

"We'll have a bath in the mysterious lake, 
anyhow ! " exclaimed Dean. And going out with 
his cousin he kicked over something at the door. 

"Is that my boots?" called out the usually 
quiet Mr. Wellington, in sudden alarm. " Oh ! " 
he growled, seeing that his foot-gear had been 
upset upon the dusty floor; "just after they had 
been beautifully polished ! " 

If there was anything he was extremely particu- 
lar about, it was those slender, dainty, dapper 
little French boots ; and if the Hart boys ever 
had any fun at his expense, it was chiefly on 
account of them. 

Dean picked up the boots, and tried to atone for 
his carelessness by dusting them with a towel. 

" Don't, for the world !" ejaculated the Duke, 
springing to the rescue. " That towel is damp ! " 
he added in a sort of horror. He took the boots 
with as much tenderness as if they had been a pair 
of human twins, and carefully removed the dust 
with a soft hat-brush, while the boys smothered their 
laughter as they hurried from the room. 

" There were actually five specks of dust on one 
of His Grace's boots!" said Dean, "and three 
specks, besides a small dog's hair, on the other ! " 

" A small hair, or the hair of a small dog ? " asked 
Roland. ' ' Dean, do express yourself with clearness 
and precision," he added, very much in the tone of 
the worthy tutor. 

The boys returned in about half an hour with 
radiant faces. They had not seen the River Jordan, 
but they had strolled through the shady streets, by 
the banks of irrigating streams of clear, cold water 
brought from the mountains ; they had rambled 
about the renowned Mormon Tabernacle and the 
great unfinished Temple ; and they had picked up 
a pleasant bit of news. 

There was to be a great excursion to the lake in 
the afternoon; and they named a noted swimmer 
who was to give an exhibition of his skill, free to all 
spectators at six o'clock. 

" We will go out in time to have our bath first," 
said Dean, "and then see the Captain's perform- 

" And enjoy the fine sunset on the lake," added 

To this the tutor agreed. This was on Saturday, 
the twelfth day of June, 1886; a day which will 
long be remembered at Salt Lake City, and 
especially by those tourists who went to witness 
the Captain's feats of swimming. 

The morning was bright and full of promise ; 
the boys passed the forenoon very pleasantly m 
riding about the city and visiting the principal 
places of interest with their tutor. Then a wind 
arose, the sky became overcast, and Mr. Welling- 
ton, looking down anxiously at his boots, predicted 
a storm. 

After dinner the weather became still more 
threatening, and the tutor said the trip to the lake 
would have to be postponed. At this the boys set 
up a cry of disappointment. 

" How can we postpone it? " said Dean. "To- 
morrow is Sunday ; and we leave here Monday 
morning. I am going to see Salt Lake, storm or 
no storm." 

The tutor, however, persuaded them to wait over 
one train, and see how the weather looked after- 
ward. The wind continued to increase, but there 
were no more decided indications of rain an hour 
later than there had been since noon. And the 
boys, who had been interviewing sorne of the oldest 




inhabitants, returned to the hotel with happy faces. 

"' They say the wind is sure to go down before 
night ; and tliere 's never rain here to amount to 
anything, at this time of year. This, you know, is 
their dry season." 

" Yes, I know," the tutor reluctantly admitted ; 
"but the lake will be too rough for you to take a 
bath in it, or for the Captain to give his perform- 

"Rough?" echoed Dean. "What does your 
little guide-book say? ' It sleeps forever; no waves 
dance over it, no surf ever — ' and all that. It will 
be all the more interesting to see a lake — almost 
half as long as the State of Massachusetts — that 
sleeps forever, no matter how the wind blows." 

" Yes," added Roland, " a lake that never gets 
its back up, even when it is stroked the wrong way 
by a heavy gale ! " 

Mr. Wellington allowed himself to be persuaded, 
and set out with the boys to walk to the station of 
the Western & Nevada Railroad, where the excur- 
sion trains to the lake were made up. But they 
had not gone far, when he looked up again at the 
sky, and down at his boots, and paused. 

"Boys!" said he, "I lack faith in this Utah 
weather. I am going back for my overcoat, and 
I advise you to take yours." 

They scoffed at the idea, and proposed to walk 
on to the station, and wait for him there. So he 
returned to the hotel alone, to find that Dean, 
whom he had sent to the office with their door- 
keys, had not left them there, but probably still 
had them in his pocket. The result was that the 
tutor was so long finding any one who could un- 
lock the door for him, and in getting his overcoat, 
that the boys at the station became exasperated 
with impatience when they saw the train about to 
start without them. 

But the train was a remarkably long one, heav- 
ily laden with passengers ; and though it was 
hauled by two locomotives, it was not easily put in 
motion. The engines were panting and struggling, 
when the boys, who had jumped upon the platform 
of a car, having determined to make the trip 
whether their tutor joined them or not, saw him 
coming down the street in full chase, with his over- 
coat and umbrella under his arm. 

It was great fun for them to see "His Grace, 
the Duke of Wellington," running for a train in 
his tight boots ; and they waved their handker- 
chiefs at him cheeringly. The cars, even after 
they had made a start, moved so slowly that they 
were easily overtaken ; and the tutor was soon on 
the platform with the boys. 

The car was crowded, however, and not a seat 
in it was to be had. The boys proposed that they 
should go back to one of the long string of open 

cars, which made up the rear of the train. But 
Mr. Wellington declared that nothing would 
tempt him to do that, in such a wind as was blow- 
ing ; beyond the sheltering limits of the city it was 
almost a gale, and it was growing cold. 

The car was crowded, mostly with Mormons, a 
rather rough and outlandish-looking company, 
with a few tourists or other Gentiles mixed in. 
But everybody was good-natured, nobody seemed 
to heed the unfavorable weather, and soon the car 
was filled with the loud talk and laughter of the 
many excursionists. 

" This is a mortifying positionfor a gentleman ! " 
murmured the tutor, crowding into the aisle to get 
out of the wind, and trying to keep his boots from 
coming in contact with those of his fellow-travelers. 
And for a moment he contemplated jumping from 
the slow-running train and walking back to the 

A stout Mormon woman, who occupied a seat 
with a little girl, kindly took the child in her lap 
and made room for him ; and after that he was 
more comfortable. But the sky grew blacker as 
they advanced, the wind increased, and, in spite of 
closed doors and windows, circulated through the 
loosely constructed car. 

"And these people fondly imagine they are enjoy- 
ing themselves ! " said the tutor, with a melancholy 
smile. He even seemed inclined to pity his pupils 
standing in the aisle beside him, because they were 
still able to keep up their courage and take a cheer- 
ful view of things. 

The journey itself was uninteresting as possible. 
Soon after the River Jordan was crossed (a stream 
with low, flat shores), they came to desolate plains 
where not much else grew besides clumps of sage- 
bush ; and afterward they passed long, level, abso- 
lutely barren tracts, covered with a whitish scum. 
These were alkali plains. Then, after what seemed 
an interminable while to our tourists, the slowly 
moving train ran by a stretch of half-overflowed 
land which proved to be the borders of the lake 

Approached by the Central Pacific Railroad from 
the northwest. Great Salt Lake, with its distant 
hazy levels broken by mountainous islands and 
blue promontories, is singularly beautiful. But 
seen as our boys saw it, from the railroad that 
skirts its southeast shore, particularly on such a 
day as that memorable Saturday, it is dreary in the 

"What is that white, out there?" asked Dean, 
stooping to look through the car window across the 
half-submerged plain. 

" That 's the lake itself," said the Mormon woman 
with the child in her lap. 

"Breakers ! " exclaimed Roland in astonishment. 




" It can't be !" said Dean. " But it is ! White- 
caps, as far as you can see ! " 

"The lake that 'sleeps forever' ! " cried Dean 
excitedly. " ' No waves dance over it, no surf ever 
breaks the stillness — ' ! Where 's your ' Journey 
Across the Continent by the Scenic Route ' ? " he 
asked, calling upon the tutor for his little railroad 
guide-book in which that highly romantic descrip- 
tion had been found. 

" I don't believe the writer of that ever saw the 
lake ! " Roland declared. 

" 1 am sure he never did in a gale of wind," said 
the tutor. " But he may have seen it in calm 
weather. This shows you, boys, how careful we 
must be in accepting the testimony of the traveler 
who has seen only one phase of natural objects 
which he attempts to describe. There 's a thought 
for your consideration." 

Passing the wet lands, the train ran slowly beside 
the actual shore of the lake, and the boys could 
see better what that dense and inert mass of water 
was in a storm. Its surface was lashed into foam 
as far as the eye could reach. Not simply white- 
caps tumbled, but regular breakers formed at least 
half a mile out, much farther from shore, the tutor 
said, than he had ever seen breakers form, except on 
shoals or reefs. They swept in slow, heavily rolling 
surges, one after another, like breakers of white 
cream, to dash high upon the shore, which there 
rose eight or ten feet above the level of the lake. 

Black Rock, a solitary, wave-worn ledge which 
rises steeply from the water a little way out from 
the beach, was enveloped in spray from the bil- 
lows dashing about it. Not far beyond was the 
station at Garfield, where the Captain's swimming 
exhibition was to take place. It was almost time 
for it now. 

The cars stopped near a large open shed or 
pavilion ; this was the railroad station, which ap- 
peared crowded with excursionists who had gone 
out on previous trains. The cold tempestuous 
wind from the lake swept through it, and a flight 
of steps that led down from it to the beach was 
buffeted by the breaking waves. 

" We shall have to give up our bath," said 
Roland, ruefully, seeing that even the descent of 
the stairs would be dangerous. " But 1 am going 
to see what the Captain will do." 

" The Captain, if he is wise, will do nothing," 
said the tutor. " It would be the height of folly 
for him to undertake to give an exhibition in so 
mad a sea. It is beginning to rain." 

A fine, swift drizzle was in fact flying horizon- 
tally into the pavilion, and spattering the car win- 
dows. The clouds over the lake were thick and 
dark, the whitened waves were veiled in mist, and 
a night of furious storm was about shutting down. 

" Boys ! " said the tutor, as his companions were 
leaving the car with the crowd of passengers, " take 
my advice, and stay where you are. This will be 
the first train back to the city, and, don't you see, 
there are hundreds of people waiting to crowd into 
it, and take the places of those who are foolish 
enough to vacate them. That open shed affords 
no one any protection. The wind and even the 
rain sweep through it. I am going to remain just 
where I am." 

"What ! come to see Salt Lake, and never leave 
your seat in the car?" said Roland. "That is 
too absurd.". 

" Absurd or not, that is the only rational thing 
to do. Many others, you see, are doing the same." 

Indeed, many who had started to leave the car 
were now rushing back with the incoming crowd, 
and scrambling to regain their seats. 

" Be quick, or you will lose your chance ! " 
called the tutor. " I can see all I want to of the 
lake through a pane of glass ! " 

But the windows were becoming misty with the 
drizzle ; and, determined to see more, even if they 
had to stand in the aisle again all the way to town, 
the boys pressed forward to the platform of the car. 

Cries from the lake shore attracted them, — 
"There he is! there he goes!" — and Roland 
eagerly asked, " Who goes? " 

"The Captain ! he is in the water." 

The two boys waited to hear no more, but 
leaped from the car, and, running along the level 
bank above the beach, among the scattered spec- 
tators, did not stop until they had reached a good 
spot " to see the show," as Dean said. 

Below them, a few rods out from the shore, was 
moored a small excursion steamboat, which was to 
have made two or three pleasure trips on the lake 
that afternoon. But pleasure trips in such weather 
were out of the question. Indeed, the little steam- 
boat appeared to be in imminent danger of being 
swamped by the waves, or of parting its cable and 
dashing upon the beach. It was tossing and 
plunging fearfully, and no sooner was its stern lifted 
high by one breaker, than the bow plunged into 
the next, which half-buried it, and swept the deck. 

What added intense interest to the scene was 
the sight of two men standing on the stern, now 
heaved high by a wave, and then dropped suddenly 
by the receding surf. 

" Why don't they come ashore? " cried Roland, 

" My dear sir," answered a gray-headed spec- 
tator, who stood with his hat pulled over his face, 
and his coat-collar turned up against the rain, 
"they would thankfully coine ashore if they could." 

" Who are they ? " Dean inquired. 

" The captain of the boat, and, I believe, his 




son. They were getting ready for a trip ; but as 
the weather grew bad, they waited for it to grow 
better. But it grew worse so fast, they could n't 
■get ashore at all. They had a small boat fastened 
•to the stern, and as a last resort they were to use 
that ; but it broke loose, and there they are." 

" If the storm increases, or continues all night, 
what will the)' do ? " said Roland. 

" That is more than man can say," replied the 
stranger. " The steamer has no cabin. They 
are where there is n't much danger of the 

" Didn't he succeed?" the boys inquired. 

" Succeed ? No ! A wave tumbled him over and 
brought him ashore, as if he had been made of 
cork. He started into the water again a minute 
ago, as if he were going to make another attempt, 
but there was something wrong about the rope he 
had tied to his waist, and he went back to arrange it. " 

" Is n't such a storm on this lake something un- 
usual ? " Dean innocently wished to know. 

" Unusual !" e.\claimed the man. "There has 
been nothing like it known here for twenty years ! " 

■ww.wiiy wJiWMRi 1**^*5^ 


waves washing them off; but the spray, you see, 
is flying over them, and anybody who ever got any 
of that into his eyes or nostrils can judge some- 
thing of what those poor fellows must suffer." 

The boys had been so much absorbed in watch- 
ing the endangered steamboat and her small crew 
of two, that they had not noticed some movements 
taking place on the beach. Dean now asked what 
they meant. 

"Don't you know? " replied the man. "The 
chap in a rubber suit is the great swimming 
captain, who was to have given an exhibition here 
this afternoon. He has just made an attempt to 
carry a line out to the men on the steamer." 

As the rain was coming in hurried volleys, 
dashing into the boys' faces, they regretted not 
having borrowed the Duke's umbrella; yet they 
noticed that the few spectators who had um- 
brellas were unable to hold them in the face of the 
tempest ; more than one was wrecked and had to 
be furled. So they, like their gray-headed ac- 
quaintance on the bank, turned up the collars of 
their tightly buttoned coats and pulled their hats 
over their eyes. And this is the way they saw 
Great Salt Lake. 

But how was His Grace the Duke seeing it? 
The train had started again, and his car, with its 
storm-pelted windows, was running off with the 




rest on a side track, at a distance from the shore 
and half a mile farther on. There it was left in 
the midst of a desolate plain, and enveloped by a 
blinding storm! 

" He is going to try it again ! " Dean cried, and 
he and Roland winked the water from their eyes, 
the better to see the famous swimmer put his art 
to a practical use by carrying a line to the dis- 
tressed men on the steamboat. 

He waded out, cased from head to foot in his 
rubber suit, but unfortunately with his features ex- 
posed. He passed the tumbling surf of the first 
breaker without being taken off his feet. He en- 
countered the second with a brave leap at its crest, 
and, strongly swimming, using his paddle, passed 
that successfully also. Then came the third roller, 
tossing, toppling forward, already crushing into 
foam with its own weight. 

This the Captain took valiantly, making a 
plunge to dive through it, which he could have 
done easily enough had the wave been any ordinary 
sea-water. But its extraordinary buoying power 
and great momentum were too much even for the 
great swimmer. Besides, the poisonous brine got 
into his eyes and nostrils. He was scarcely visible 
for a moment, then he was seen tumbling like a 
rubber ball, as light and almost as helpless, in the 
midst of the breaking surge. He had lost his pad- 
dle, and he seemed also to have lost all power of 
governing his motions, in the dashing waves. 

" Merciful heavens ! the man will drown ! " ex- 
claimed the gray-headed spectator. 

With one impulse the cousins rushed down to 
the beach, in order to assist in the rescue of the 
gallant Captain. Fortunately his friends on the 
shore had hold of the rope he was carrying to the 
steamer; and, seeing it was impossible for him to 
proceed, they hauled him back to land. He was 
taken out and lifted upon his feet, blinded for the 
moment, coughing and strangling terribly, and 
even unable to stand without support. The boys 
scrambled back up the bank, with wet feet and a 
taste of spray from the lake on their lips. There 
they remained awhile longer, watching with great 
anxiety the two men on the plunging steamboat, 
and waiting to see if the Captain would make an- 
other attempt to rescue them. He was soon taken 
by his friends to the bathing-house, where his 
drooping attitude, as he stood on the platform, 
did not give promise of further efforts on his part. 
"There 's no hope for those men, except in the 
wind's going down," said Dean. "We can't wait 
to see that." 

And the two boys hastened to find what poor 
shelter they could at the open shed of the station. 
Their feet were splashed with the brine of the lake, 
and the rain was fast drenchintr them. 

" What a lovely sunset ! " laughed Roland. 

■'' We shall have had our bath anyhow," re- 
plied Dean ; " though not just as we anticipated." 

■' And we have seen the Captain's performance," 
added Roland. 

The situation under the pavilion roof was not 
comfortable, but the huddled crowd afforded them 
a slight protection from the driving storm. 
Though chilled and wet, waiting for the train, 
they kept up their spirits by an exchange of jokes, 
by listening to the talk of their fellow-sufferers, or, 
when their patience was nearly exhausted, by 
thinking how much better off they were, at the 
worst, than the two men whom they could still see 
tossing on the stern of the little steamboat. 

Meanwhile the tutor adhered to his resolution to 
remain in his seat, whatever happened, until some- 
thing happened which caused even him to spring up 
and rush out of the car. The train had run on to 
Lake Point, where the conductor, passing through, 
announced that passengers for Salt Lake City 
must take another set of cars, standing on an 
adjacent track. 

A distance of only two or three rods intervened 
between the two trains; but the wet grass and 
bushes, bowing to the storm, caused the Duke, 
after he had reached the platform of his car, to 
recoil in dismay, and look at his precious boots. 
There was no time to hesitate, however; if he 
wished to get a seat in the returning train, the 
plunge must be made, and made at once. With 
his umbrella spread, taking long strides, and step- 
ping high, he crossed from one car to another, and 
succeeded in getting a place as good as the one he 
had left. But his boots I 

The newly made-up train, after many hitches 
and delays, moved slowly back to Garfield, where 
there was a final rush for the few places left in the 
close car, and for the long string of open cars 
which were the last to be filled. The boys were 
fortunate enough to get into the same car with 
their tutor, but again they had to stand, which 
they did without complaint, resolutely declining 
his repeated offers to them of his seat. They 
were very jolly, as healthy and good-tempered 
boys have the gift of being under adverse circum- 
stances ; and while their teeth almost chattered 
with the cold, they assured His Grace that they 
were having a " splendid time." 

It took the heavily laden train a long time to 
start, the driving-wheels of the two engines whirl- 
ing on the wet and slippery rails. Night had 
closed in, when at last it moved ; and the boys 
took their last look at the plunging steamer and the 
two solitary men standing on the stern, in the rain 
and tempest and gloom. 

For some time longer they could see the white 



breakers, through the darkness and storm ; and 
Roland, nudging his cousin, remarked : 

'■ Rather lively for a dead sea, is n't it ? " 

And again Dean quoted the misleading guide- 
book : 

" ' It sleeps forever ! No waves dance over it, no 
surf ever breaks the stillness — ' and I suppose no 
rain ever falls here either ! " he added, stepping 
aside to avoid the drip from a leak in the roof of 
the car. 

The night ride back to the city was exceedingly 
dismal. The little rickety, narrow-gauge car was 
dimly lighted, the hurricane howled about it and 
drove into it, the rain fell upon it in torrents and 
beat in at every crevice. The Duke spread his 
umbrella to protect himself from a leak directly 
over his head ; and others, who were lucky enough 
to have umbrellas, followed his example. Clouds 
buried the mountains, and the darkness outside 
the car windows became intense. 

It was half-past nine when the train approached 
the city, and to the great joy of the chilled, weary, 
and hungry boys, came to a stop. They supposed 
it had reached the station, and were not pleased 
to learn that it had stopped on an up-grade two 
blocks away, from the utter failure of the engines 
to haul it farther. Five, ten minutes elapsed, and 
no progress was made, the locomotives puffing and 
jerking in vain. The rain was still pouring, and 
the streets were but dimly lighted by far-away 
lamps. Suddenly Dean exclaimed : 

" Only two blocks away ! I am going to walk to 
the station." 

The tutor remonstrated in vain ; any adventure 
seemed better to the boys than standing there on 
their weary feet, in their damp clothes. Roland 
followed Dean, and stepping from the car went 
with a splash into a pool of water that covered the 
ground beside the track. 

A brisk run through wind and rain and mud and 
water brought them to the station, where long lines 
of coaches, horse-cars, and omnibuses were wait- 
ing. Into one of these last the boys threw them- 

selves, along with a number of other dripping 
excursionists ; and, the vehicle being nearly full, 
called upon the conductor to start. 

But he said he couldn't start until the train 
arrived ; and now the boys seemed worse off than 
if they had remained in the car. There was no 
knowing how long they would have to wait. They 
were already about as wet as they could be ; but 
the run had warmed them, and a longer run might 
warm them still more. 

"Come on!" cried Dean. And once more 
leaping out into the storm and flood, they started 
for the hotel. 

They were the first of the excursionists to reach 
it. All in a glow from their exercise, they hurried 
to their rooms, put on dry clothes and slippers, 
and walked comfortably and cheerfully down into 
the dining-room, just as the coaches and omni- 
buses began to arrive. 

It was twenty minutes later when His Grace the 
Duke walked into the hotel, almost as wet as the 
boys had been, notwithstanding his overcoat and 
umbrella. He had been one of the last to leave 
his place in the car, and when he did so, not a seat 
in coach, horse-car or omnibus was to be had; and 
he had been obliged to walk through the flooded 
streets in those boots ! 

The next day the boys saw the Captain at the 
hotel ; and walking up to him with a polite " I 
beg your pardon. Captain ! " Dean inquired what 
became of the two inen on the little storm-tossed 

" They staid there all night," replied the Cap- 
tain ; "and 1 was one of those who remained to 
encourage them by keeping lights burning on the 
shore. Fortunately for them, the storm lulled, but 
the lake continued so rough that we couldn't get 
to them in a boat and take them off before this 
morning. They were more dead than alive." 

"And, Captain," said Roland, "allow me to 
ask )-ou how you like Salt Lake to swim in ? " 

With a grim smile the Captain turned and 
walked away. 


Very soon the candy slips 
In between your open lips — 
Let sweet thoughts into your mind 
Just such ready entrance find. 

1 I, Hill The baby grasps at the empty air 
^t till'' And sees a wonderful sight ; 
For the great old sideboard over there 
Is shining with silver bright. 

The grandfather dangles his watch of gold, 
And she hears the wheels go click, 

And she tries in her pincushion hands to hold 
That "bull's-eye" round and thick. 

They are wonderful things that the baby sees ; 
But, when she is tired of all. 


And they wrap her up from the evening breeze. 
When the shadows begin to fall, 

She is tired of the noisy and busy world. 

Too tired to go to sleep. 
And she won't sit up, and she won't stay curled, 

And she only wakes to weep ; 

And she 's suddenly caught in a tender hold 

Where she even forgets to stir — 
And what to baby are silver and gold. 

When her mother smiles down at her ? 

Vol. XV.— 9. 

msT ■(Tini5TriAS T^ee 

' ir\ ]\Je:v;^NC;LAH]3' • 



WAS in the year 1635. 
On a November aft- 
ernoon Mrs. Rachel 
Olcott was spinning 
flax in the cheerful 
kitchen of a small 
house not far from 
Plymouth Rock, in 
Massachusetts. East- 
ward from the house, the ocean broke with a sullen 
roar on the rocks of the const below ; northward 
lay the few homes of the few Pilgrims who were 
Mrs. Olcott's neighbors. 

Captain Olcott's ship had sailed from Boston 
for England, in the year 1632, and had not been 
heard from. 

The little band of Pilgrims had ceased to look 
for news from the captain or his ship. 

Mrs. Olcott kept up a brave heart and a cheer- 
ful face for the sake of her four children, Robert, 
Rupert, Lucy, and poor, crippled little Roger ; 
but this November afternoon anxiety filled her 
heart. Day by day her little store of provisions 
had lessened under the stress of hunger until even 
the corn-meal had vanished, and it became neces- 
sary to send corn to be ground at the only mill in 
all that region. Early in the day, Robert and 
Rupert with their sister Lucy had been sent to 
the miller's, for it was well understood that each 
comer must await his turn at the mill. This grind- 
ing in those early days was slow work, and much 
of the day had passed before Mrs. Olcott expected 
them to return. 

But when the sky grew dark and the snow began 
to fall, the loving mother grew anxious. She drew 
the great arm-chair, in the cushioned depths of 
which poor, pale-faced little Roger lay curled, far 
into the fireplace ; and then, when anxiety grew to 
fear, she threw over her head the hooded red cloak 

that all the Puritan matrons wore, and hurried 
over the hill, as fast as the drifting snow would 
permit, to the house of her nearest neighbor, 
Master John Hawley. 

As she drew the latch and walked in with im- 
petuous haste, up sprung John Hawley and stalked 
to the corner, where, ever ready, stood his trusty 

"Indians, Rachel?" shrieked Mrs. Hawley, 
springing to drop the curtain that hung above the 
one window of the room. 

" Put up your musket, friend," gasped Mrs. 
Olcott. " It is my boys who are in danger. They 
went to the mill with grist. Lucy is with them. 
Oh, save them ! " she pleaded. 

" They 'I'e young and tough ; they '11 weather it 
through, and be home by supper-time," said John 
Hawley, the stanch Puritan, dropping his musket 
to its corner. " I '11 step over after supper and see. 
Go home, and don't worry." 

To him, nothing less than Indians seemed worth 
a moment's uneasiness. 

When he turned, Rachel Olcott was gone, and 
his wife was at the door, watching the red cloak 
as its wearer urged it through the snow. 

" A woman has no business to look as she does," 
exclaimed Mrs. Hawley, closing the door. 

" She 's had trouble enough in Plymouth, good- 
ness knows ! — her husband lost, and that crippled 
child to care for night and day, those boys to bring 
up, and hardly enough money to keep soul and 
body together. And there she goes this minute 
with a face like a sweet-brier rose"; and John 
Hawley demanded his supper at once. 

He had it, his wife looking as stern as any Puri- 
tan of them all, as he put on his greatcoat and went 
out, saying : 

"If those youngsters have come home, I 'II be 
right back." 



But he was not " right back." Midnight came 
down on all the Atlantic coast, and he had not 

The supper for the young Olcotts was baked at 
the hearth, and set back to await their coming. 
The blazing logs filled the long, low kitchen with 
light. There was no need of a candle, as the 
mother sat, to sing her poor boy to sleep. But 
Roger could not sleep. 

" Tell me something more about England, 

to sleep, while I tell you something about Christ- 
mas — the way we used to keep it — before Mamma 
was a Puritan, you know." 

Then she told the boy of old-time customs in 
her native land ; of her father's house, and the 
great rejoicings that came at Christmas-time, and 
lastly, with a vague feeling of regret in her heart, 
she came to the story of the great green bough 
that was lighted with tapers and hung with gifts 
for the good children. 


Mother," he pleaded, again and again. " It keeps 
me from thinking of Lucy and the boys, when you 

The lirelight illumined the white face and made 
the blue eyes of the boy more pitiful than ever in 
their plaintive asking that night. 

The mother's thoughts and her heart were out in 
the snowdrifts searching with her neighbors for her 
bright, rosy darlings, but her words and her hands 
were ministering to this child, bereft of almost 
everything belonging to the outside world of work 
and endeavor. 

" Well, then, Roger, shut your eyes and try to go 

"What made you be a Puritan, Mother? Why 
did n't you stay at home," asked Roger. 

"Don't ask me, my boy," she said, touching 
the shining face with a kiss. " Remember that 
heaven is a much finer place than England." 

"Do they have any Christmas-boughs there, 

" Something better than boughs, my boy ! " 

" Mother, I'd like it, if God would let me, to 
go to heaven around by the way of dear England, 
so that I could see a Christmas-bough just for once 
before I die." 

At that moment the door was thrust in, and the 




boys, Robert and Rupert, clad in snow, entered 
the room. The mother, dropping Roger's mite of 
a hand, sprung to meet them with untold gladness 
in her eyes, that still looked beyond them in search 
of something more. 

" Lucy 'sail right, Mother! "cried Robert. ''If it 
had n't been for Mr. Havvley, though, and Richard 
Cooper, and the rest, we 'd have had a night of it 
in the old cedar-tree. We could n't get a bit far- 
ther with the meal and Lucy ; so we scooped out 
the snow in the big hollow, put Lucy in first, when 
we had made sure there was n't a fox or any thing 
inside; crawled in ourselves, with a big stick apiece 
to keep off enemies, and were getting very hungry 
and sleepy, when a light flashed in our eyes." 

" But where is Lucy ? " interrupted Mrs. Olcott. 

" Oh, they are bringing her ! And Mother, Mr. 
Hawley has been scolding us half the way home 
for going to mill on such a day. And we never 
told him that we had n't meal enough in the house 
to last till to-morrow. We took it brave." 

" That 's right, my good boys ; but how did they 
find you?" Mrs. Olcott demanded. 

"They did n't ; we found them," cried Rupert. 
" They had a lantern, and we saw it ; and then we 
made a dash after the light, and brought them 
back to the hollow. When they drew Lucy out, 
she was fast asleep, and as warm as toast, 'cause 
Robert gave her his jacket, and I tied my muffler 
on her, too." 

" And she 's fast asleep this minute, I do be- 
lieve ! " added Robert, as two vigorous young men 
entered, — one drawing the sled-load of meal and 
the other bearing Lucy in his arms. 

From that night in November little Roger grew 
more and more away from the bleak New England 
life. It was evident to every one who saw the 
lad that he was going to the Shining Shore, — al- 
though the little Puritan boy had never heard 
much of its being a shining shore, — and I think 
that was the reason he fell to thinking so much of 
the beautiful Christmas-bough. He talked of it 
when awake, he dreamed of it when he slept; and 
he told his dreams and said, with tears on his 
cheeks, how sorry he was to awake and find that 
he had n't seen it after all — and, oh, he wanted 
to so much ! 

The time of Christmas in that far, far-away year 
drew near, and in all the land there was not a 
Christmas-bell, a Christmas-tree, nor even a 
Christmas- gift. 

Beautiful Mrs. Olcott felt that her little Roger 
was getting very near to the heavenly land. A 
physician from Boston had come down, and told 
her that the lad must die. This bright little 
mother wished, oh, so much ! to make her child 
happy, and his little heart was set on seeing a 

Christmas-bough before he died. She could not 
withstand his wishes, and she said to herself, " If 
I am punished for it as long as I live, Roger shall 
see a Christmas-bough." So she took her boys, 
Robert and Rupert, and little Lucy, outside the 
house one day, just a week before Christmas, and 
told them what she was going to do. 

''O Mother! "exclaimed Robert, the eldest son. 
" They '11 persecute you to death ; they '11 drive us 
into the wilderness ; wc shall lose our home and 
everything ! " 

" Remember, boys, your mother has been into 
the wilderness once, and she is n't afraid of that. 
We shall have the Christmas-bough ! I am going 
up to Boston to-morrow, if the day is fine, and I '11 
fetch back some nice little trinkets for poor Roger. 
May be a ship has come in lately ; one is expected. " 

On the morrow, clad in the scarlet cloak, Mrs. 
Olcott set forth for Boston. She had not been 
there since the day she went up to see the ship 
sail, with her husband on it — the ship that never 
had been heard from. But that was more than 
three years before, and it was in going home from 
Boston that Roger had been so hurt and maimed 
that his little life was spoiled. 

Great was the astonishment in Plymouth when 
it was learned that the Widow Olcott had gone to 
Boston. Why had she to go to Boston ? She had 
no folk living there to go to see ; and what had 
she been buying, they wondered, when she came 
back. Mrs. Hawley went down the hill that same 
day to make inquiry, and found out very little. 

As soon as Mrs. Olcott was well rid of Mrs. 
Hawley, she called her boys, and bade them go 
to the pine-woods and get the finest, handsomest 
young hemlock-tree that they could find. 

" Get one that is straight and tall, with well- 
boughed branches on it, and put it where you can 
draw it under the wood-shed, after dark," she 

The boys went to Pine Hill, and there they 
picked out the finest young tree on all the hill, 
and said, "We will take this one." So, with their 
hatchets they hewed it down and brought it safely 
home the next night when all was dark. And 
when Roger was quietly sleeping in the adjoining 
room, they dragged the tree into the kitchen. It 
was too tall, so they took it out again and cut off 
two or three feet at the base. Then they propped 
it up, and the curtains being down over the win- 
dows, and blankets being fastened over the curtains 
to prevent any one looking in, and the door being 
doubly barred to prevent any one coming in, they 
all went to bed. 

Very early the next morning, while the stars 
shone on the snow-covered hills, — the same stars 
that shone sixteen hundred years before on the hills 




when Christ was born in Bethlehem, — the Uttlc 
Puritan mother in New England arose very softly. 
She went out and lit the kitchen fire anew from the 
ash-covered embers. She fastened upon the twigs 
of the tree the gifts she had bought in Boston for 
her boys and girl. Then she took as many as 
twenty pieces of candle and fixed them upon the 
branches. After that, she softly called Rupert, 
Robert, and Lucy, and told them to get up and 
dress and come into the kitchen. 

Hurrying back, she began, with a bit of a burn- 
ing stick, to light the candles. Just as the last one 
was set aflame, in trooped the three children. 

"O Mother! "he cried. " O Lucy ! Is it really, 
really true, and no dream at all? Yes, I see! I 
see ! O Mother ! it is so beautiful ! Were all the 
trees on all the hills lighted up that way when 
Christ was born ? And, Mother," he added, clap- 
ping his little hands with joy at the thought, 
" why yes, the stars did sing when Christ was 
born ! They must be glad, then, and keep Christ- 
mas, too, in Heaven. I know they must, and there 
will be good times there." 

" Yes," said his mother; "there will be good 
times there, Roger." 

"Then," said the boy, "I shan't mind going, 


Before they had time to say a word, they were 
silenced by their mother's warning. 

" I wish to fetch Roger in and wake him up 
before it," she said. "Keep still until I come 
back ! " 

The little lad, fast asleep, was lifted in a blanket 
and gently carried by his mother into the beautiful 

" See ! Roger, my boy, see ! " she said, arousing 
him. " It is Christmas morning now! In Eng- 
land they only have Christmas-boughs, but here 
in New England we have a whole Christmas-tree." 

now that I 've seen the Christmas-bough. I — 
What is that, Mother? " 

What 7iias it that they heard ? The little Olcott 
home had never before seemed to tremble so. 
There were taps at the window, there were knocks 
at the door — and it was as yet scarcely the break 
of day ! There were voices also, shouting some- 
thing to somebody. 

"Shall I put out the candles, Mother ?" whis- 
pered Robert. 

" What will they do to us for having the tree? 
I wish we had n't it," regretted Rupert ; while Lucy 



clung to her mother's gown and shrieked with all 
her strength, " It 's Indians ! " 

Pale and white and still, ready to meet her fate, 
stood Mrs. Olcott, until, out of the knocking and 
the tapping at her door, her heart caught a 
sound. It was a voice calling, "Rachel! Rachel! 
Rachel ! " 

" Unbar the door! " she cried back to her boys ; 
"It 's your father calling ! " Down came the blank- 
ets ; up went the curtain ; open flew the door, and 
in walked Captain Olcott, followed by every man 
and woman in Pljniouth who had heard at break 
of day the glorious news that the expected ship 
had arrived at Boston, and with it the long-lost 
Captain Olcott. For an instant nothing was 
thought of except the joyous welcoming of the 
captain in his own home. 

" What 's this? What is it? What docs this 
mean? " was asked again and again, when the first 
excitement was past, as the tall young pine stood 
aloft, its candles ablaze, its gifts still hanging. 

" It 's welcome home to Father! " said Lucy, her 
only thought to screen her mother. 

"No, child, }W !" sternly spoke Mrs. Olcott. 
"Tell the truth!" 

" It 's — a — Christmas-tree ! " faltered poor Lucy. 

One and another and another. Pilgrims and 
Puritans all, drew near with faces stern and for- 
bidding, and gazed and gazed, until one and 
another and yet another softened slowly into a 
smile as little Roger's piping voice sung out : 

" She made it for me, Mother did. But you 
may have it now, and all the pretty things that 
are on it, too, because you 've brought my father 
back again; if Mother will let you," he added. 

Neither Pilgrim nor Puritan frowned at the gift. 
One man, the sternest there, broke off a little twig 
and said : 

"1 '11 take it for the sake of the good old times 
at home." 

Then every one wanted to take a bit for the same 
sweet sake, until the young pine was bereft of half 
its branches. But still it stood, like a hero at his 
post, candles burning and gifts hanging, until all 
but the little household had departed ; and even 
then, the last candle was permitted to burn low 
and flicker out before a gift was distributed, so 
glad were the Olcotts in the presence of the one 
great gift of that Christmas morn ; so eager were 
they to be told every bit of the story, the wonder- 
ful story, of their father's long, long voyage in a 
poor, little, storm-beaten and disabled ship which, 
at last, he had been able to guide safely into port. 
His return voyage had been made in the very ship 
that Mrs. Olcott had hoped would arrive in time 
for her Christmas-tree. 

That morning brought to Roger something bet- 
ter than Chrismas-trees, better, if such a thing 
were possible, than the home-coming of the hero- 
captain — renewed life. It may have been the 
glad surprise, the sudden awaking in the bright 
presence of a real, live Christmas-tree ; it may 
have been the shock of joy that followed the 
knocking and the shouts at door and window, or 
the more generous living that came into the little 
house near Plymouth. Certain it was, that Roger 
began to mend in many ways, to grow satisfied 
with bleak New England wind and weather, and 
to rejoice the heart of all the Olcotts by his glad 
presence with them. 


By a. R. Wells. 

TTENTION, good people! A baby 1 'm selling. 
His folks are all tired of his crowing and yelling. 
If a price that 's at all within reason you '11 pay, 
You may have the young rascal, and take him awnj-. 
The Mountains have bid every gem in their store ; 
The Ocean has bid e\'ery pearl on its floor ; 
By the Land we are offered ten million of sheep, — 
But we have no intention of selling so cheap ! 
Compared with his value our price is not high — 
How much for a baby? what offer? who '11 buy ? 

By Edward Duffy. 

Let me tell the readers of St. Nicholas what 
I may recall of a trip into the sky, last summer, 
on board the big New- York World air-ship. 

There were four of us. 

Alfred E. Moore, of Winsted, Conn., who built 
the balloon, had charge of it during our voyage ; 
John G. Doughty, a photographer, also of Winsted, 
took views of the earth and the clouds. Prof 
H. Allen Hazen, of the United States Signal Ser- 
vice Station at Washington, made records of 
moisture and temperature, and other phenomena 
of the upper regions, which have most value to those 
who study that special branch of science. I was 
one of the party simply as a reporter. The World 
balloon was the fruit of a plan whereby it was hoped 
to attain two objects. One was to enable the Gov- 
ernment Signal Service to obtain certain facts about 
the upper currents of air which might be of value 
to the Weather Bureau. The other object was 
to excel the greatest balloon voyage ever made. 

Prof. John Wise, a world-famed aeronaut, sailed 
through the air in July, 1859, from St. Louis, Mo., 
to Henderson, Jefferson County, N. Y. — a distance 
in a straight line of 835 miles. He laid claim to 
1050 miles, by reason of the many turns taken 
during the trip, which took his balloon out of a 
direct course into circles and curves. This voyage 
is the longest recorded in balloon history. 

The balloon was in the air over night — a period 
of about twenty hours. Prof. Wise tried more than 
once, but without success, to equal or exceed the 
famous trip mentioned. Finally, a few years ago, 
he left St. Louis in a balloon on a long trip, for 
the last time. He has never been heard from. A 

reporter who went with him was found dead some 
weeks later on the shore of Lake Michigan. By rea- 
son of this and other disasters, the suggestion of a 
long air-voyage gives rise in the public mind to a 
keen sense of the perils which attend every attempt 
to stay in the sky over night. 

It is only about one hundred and four years since 
balloons were first thought of, or first used to convey 
man into the upper air. But I can not here spare 
the space wherein to speak of any air-ship other 
than that which is the topic of this paper. 

Now, let me, if I can, give you an idea of the 
shape and great size of the World balloon. 

Fancy, if you please, a ripe Bartlett pear which 
exceeds the usual size millions of times ; think of 
it floating in the air, stem down, with its top 124 
feet high and its bulb 65 feet wide. Or, imagine a 
giant plum-pudding rising into the air higher than 
many a church-steeple, and occupying as great 
a space as does a large city store or a countrj' 
hotel. Then you may have a fair notion of the 
size of our great air-ship. Mr. Moore, who built 
it, had made nearly a dozen air-trips, and was able, 
from a special study of the science of ballooning, 
to draw exact plans for the weight to be borne, 
which was, in all, more than two tons. In order 
to exceed Prof Wise's record, our balloon would 
need to stay in the air longer than a day and 
a night, or nearly thirty hours. Prof. Wise, by 
chance, rose into a rapid current of air, which took 
his balloon feather-like along at the rate of a mile 
a minute. But the usual speed of balloons is 
less than thirty miles an hour, except when they 
happen to be caught in a strong gale. 




As early as November, 18S6, Mr. Moore began 
work upon his plans. Fine white muslin, a yard 
wide, and in a strip a mile and a quarter long, or 
about twenty-two hundred yards, was used to make 
the gas-bag. This cloth alone was half a ton or 
more in weight. 

Over it, on both sides, were spread four coats of 
varnish of a special kind, — in all, about three full 
barrels. This varnish was used to fill up the pores 
of the cloth, through which the gas would other- 
wise escape into the air. The big net which 
covered the vast bulb was made from a fine quality 
of shoe-thread. 

the gas-dome was fastened to a large hickory hoop 
which hung above the car, so near that the voy- 
agers' hands might grasp it. To this hoop were 
fixed the cords which held the car. 

Set into the top of the balloon was a valve, two 
and a half feet across the center. The cord from 
this hung down the inside of the bag, and through 
the open neck into the car, so that our captain 
might open the valve when he wished to descend. 
Another rope, called the rip-cord, was also at hand. 
This, with a strong pull, would tear the gas-bag 
from top to bottom almost in an instant, and would 
bring the balloon to the ground in a jiffy. But 


Of this, four hundred pounds were used. 

Next the car was made. 

Most balloons have baskets of willow, wherein 
to carry voyagers and ballast. But ours was a 
strong, large car, made of matched pine and water- 
tight. It was nine feet long, six feet wide, and a 
trifle more than four feet deep. On each side was 
a cushioned seat ; and on the bottom of the car 
lay a rug. This car was hung from the balloon 
by thirty slender cords, — each about as thick as a 
lead pencil. To the eye these were far too slight 
to be safe ; yet they were very strong, and in a test 
each cord had held up a greater weight than would 
ever again be fixed to it. The net which covered 

this was only as a last resort, to be used when about 
to come down in water, or in a storm. 

Now, let us consider the weight : 

As I have said, the strength of the balloon was 
made equal to three tons. The gas-bag, and its 
ropes, and the car, — in short, the whole air-ship, — 
when ready, made up a ton in weight of itself. Its 
four passengers weighed about 600 pounds; there 
were 200 pounds of provisions, and fully three- 
quarters of a ton of paper and sand ; also camera 
and plate cases, and other traps, — making a total 
weight of two and a quarter tons ! Now, I hope 
you have a nearly correct idea of the size and 
power of the big World balloon, which, by the 





way, was next to the largest, if it was not actually 
the largest, air-ship ever made. After several 
delays, we made a start from Sportsman's Park, St. 
Louis, at 4:28 P. M., on the 17th of June, 1887. 
The date first set was the nth of June, but it was 
thought best to wait for a strong air-current from 
the west which might waft us to the Atlantic coast 
or some part of New England or Canada. Prior 

to the 17th, the wind had been from east to west, 
or from south to north. The latter course would 
have taken us to Lake Michigan or Lake Superior. 
This would have rendered the chance of the suc- 
cess of our trip very slight ; and would have added 
thereto the extreme peril of our being blown about 
at night like a mere straw over one of those vast 
bodies of water. 




You may wonder why St. Louis was chosen as 
the point from which to make a start. All of the 
great long-distance balloon trips attempted in this 
country have been begun at that place. And the 
reason is that St. Louis, besides having an ample 
gas supply, stands nearly in the center of our 
vast country. Going from that city, the aeronaut 
may be sure of plenty of land-room, let the wind 
bear him where it may. He may sail for hundreds 
of miles, at least, before he comes to any great 
sheet of water. 

There is no need for me to describe to you all 
that took place before our flight from St. Louis. 
The big balloon lay in Armory Hall in that city 
for more than a week, half filled with air, which 
was forced in by a hand-pump. During these 
days it was, you may be sure, the chief object of 
interest to many mixed crowds of sight-seers. As 
the time drew near for the great trip, the public 
pulse ran high. A little before midnight of June 
l6, the balloon, which had been taken to the 
Park, was made ready for filling. The gas was 
let in ; and for about sixteen hours the neck of the 
bag was kept on the supply-pipe. 

At about 7 A. M. on the 17th, a stiff breeze 
sprang up, which some hours later v/as a source 
of serious trouble to those in charge of the balloon. 
At I P. M., the hour set for sailing, the huge yellow 
cloth dome was less than three-quarters full. 

It inflated slowly. 

In the strong wind, it now and then tore away, 
as if about to fly to cloud-land without its crew. 
It was a constant menace to the nervous ladies 
present ; even men of stout heart did not repress a 
shudder as they thought of the perils of a trip 
among the clouds, at the mercy of so ugly and 
restive an ogre. Pitch and roll and twist and 
sway and tug; this it did all through the day. To 
the netting were fixed a hundred bags of sand, — 
some of them more than eighty pounds in weight. 
And added thereto were hundreds of stout men ; 
yet the gusty wind caught our giant under the 
arms, as it were, and despite all the weight he 
bore, jerked him off his feet. The bags swung 
in the air like mere tassels; and the men were 
often brought upon tip-toe, as they grimly held 
on. At last the gas was shut off; the car was 
hitched on. The car had been made ready for its 
voyage, and was fairly full of the ballast and the 
various other things to be taken by the voyagers. 
I had on board big envelopes wherewith to drop 
dispatches from the sky ; also twelve carrier- 
pigeons to bear messages to their liomes during our 
flight above the clouds. I had also put on board 
my winter overcoat ; but my comrades had donned 
instead some extra under-flannels to protect them 
from the chill air of the upper regions. 

Now, behold us, ready for the start ! 

It is 4 P. M. 

Crowds and crowds of people are present. 

The seats of the large grand-stand fairly groan 
under their overweight of eager sight-seers — all 
in gay attire. Despite the stiff breeze, which is 
almost a gale, the sun beams with fervor, and the 
mercury stands at 96° in the shade. 

Soon the giant ship rises, — up, up, a foot at a 
time ; the sand-bags which held it to the earth 
drop away; one here, and one there ; in their places 
Imndreds of men stand and strain and tug at the 
monster bag which turns and twists above them. 
The west wind comes in fitful gusts around the grand- 
stand, and slyly strikes our ship with such vigor that 
for an instant it lays over almost to the grass-plat, 
like a boat's sail thrown upon the waves in a fierce 
squall. Then it rights again, and once more 
towers aloft and erect more than a hundred feet. 
Now Moore directs the work ; he orders the voya- 
gers aboard the car. The men who hold the guy- 
ropes walk in toward the balloon a foot at a time, 
and the circle grows smaller. Up, up stretches 
the huge dome ; higher and higher it ascends, till 
at last all hands let go, and every cord is drawn 

But we do not stir. 

There is more sand aboard than the balloon can 
lift. And so Doughty puts out one bag, then two, 
then three. 

The car begins to quiver. 

Out goes the fourth bag ; a crowd of men hold 
the car, with all their strength, until they get the 
word from Moore. They hold the car to the turf, 
and drag us by dint of severe labor back into the 
center of the park. Here, just as Moore is about 
to give the word, a seventy-pound sand-bag slips 
over the edge of the car ; its sharp hook catches 
the middle finger of Moore's right hand, and lays 
it open to the bone, and severs an artery. 

It is an ugly wound. 

But a doctor quickly binds a wet handkerchief 
about the cut finger, and once again Moore, our 
captain, bends his thoughts to the work at hand. 
The last bag is set upon the edge of the car. Over 
it goes. 

" Now ! Let go ! " 

As Moore shouts this, the men release the car. 
Like a huge bird, our ship, at 4.28 P. M., rises from 
the ground, — so quickly, indeed, that amid the 
tumult about us, 1 do not clearly recall the exact 

As we clear the park fence our ship dips before 
the strong wind. 

There is, for the instant, extreme peril. 

Moore shouts, " Throw out sand ! Quick ! " 

Hazen and Doughty, each dumps over what he 




may. Our ship at once rights itself ; the car springs 
under the gas-bag, and the leafy tops of some trees 
brush its sides as we glide over them. We clear 
a brick house by a few feet only, then sail away 
toward the blue vault overhead. 

The park begins to sink away beneath us. We 
have no sense of going up — no, not at all. 

All things else go down, down. 

The crowds as they cheer, and swing their hats, 
and wave handkerchiefs and parasols — it is they 
who fall away below us, and fast fade into a mass 

of tiny specks of life and color, until ere long the 
whole city is but a spot upon the wide view of the 

This is my first flight. 

Moore has been aloft nearly a dozen times. 
Doughty twice, and Hazen once. My head begins 
to pain me ; my ears ring, and my thoughts grow 
as thick as in a trip through a boiler-shop or other 
noisy place. I stand and gaze over the edge of 
the car at the unique picture below, which slowly 
changes its forms and tints. The big smoky city 





of St. Louis lies there like a set of toy houses, 
with tiny strings for streets, in the shade of 
trees that seem mere weeds from where we gaze 
at them. On all sides is a flat mass of earth and 
tree. We are half a mile high, and fast rising. 
Slowly the car turns, and thereby tends to con- 
fuse our sense of place. Now the city lies on our 
left, — the great Mississippi on ourright. A minute 
later, town and stream have shifted sides. Now 
Doughty, aided by me, runs over the edge of the 
car the long drag-rope, which hangs, hundreds of 
feet below us, not unlike a straw or thread from a 
robin's nest. We approach the great, broad, murky 
stream that flows from north to south through our 
country into the Gulf of Mexico. You know of it 
as "The Father of Waters." It is now in full 
view for many miles — its dark, sinuous surface 
dotted with busy tugs and steamers. We soon 
come to it ; now we move across it ; now we leave 
it to the rear. 

A mile and a half high — and still going up, 

Hazen is busy with his records ; and Doughty, 
with seventy-five photographic plates on board, 
holds his camera in hand, and turns it — first 
upon the earth, then upon the white clouds that, 
like a mass of snow, lie off to the east. With pad 
and pencil in hand I rapidly jot down what I may 
about our voyage, hoping to send my messages 
by the pigeons, which under a seat near by rustle 
uneasily in their cages. 

1 glance up. 

Moore sits in his corner, a mere heap — his face 
a waxy white, his lips blue, his eyes half shut. 

We hastily give him some brandy and water ; this 
revives him a little. His wound has made him 
faint. We get him into my overcoat; for the air 
is now quite thin and cool. Our ship, with no 
captain to guide it, goes softly on its way — higher 
and higher, the earth seems bigger and bigger, as 
the circular line it makes with the sky grows larger 
and larger. With two and a quarter tons' weight, 
still our bird mounts rapidly upward, — now two 
miles, now two and a half. We sail far above the 
fields of yellow wheat and dark green corn of Illi- 
nois. Rivers are mere white threads ; and lakes 
are patches of silver set into a carpet of many hues. 
The forest trees are bushes, that look as if a small 
scythe might easily mow them down. The thin 
air and our rapid upward flight make my head 
roar, as if with the sounds of noisy drums ; I feel 
dizzy — like one about to faint away. 

Now we are 15,000 feet high — nearly three miles. 

Our ship has not yet come to the extreme top 
of her flight. We arc far above the clouds. Over 
the edges of the thick white vapor we gaze at the 
earth, spread out below like a map, with green 
and gray, and brown and yellow spots thereon. 
From the discomforts of ninety-six degrees of heat 
in the shade when we left the earth, we have come 
to the chilly comfort of thirty-seven — a drop of 
nearly sixty degrees in less than an hour. This is a 
quick turn — one that never comes to man or beast 
below. Yet up here, where we are sailing softly, 
the air is so dry that the cold affects us much less 
than would the same temperature on the earth's 




Now we are 15,840 feet high. 

At last wc are more than three miles above the 
great ball of dried mud which rolls below, from 
west to east, for days, and years, and ages. Over 
head the huge pear-shaped bag stands erect ; its 
neck and mouth wide open, through which the 
gas escapes into the car, where it assails our nos- 
trils with its vile odor. 

Very soon our ship touches nearly 16,000 feet, 
a point which is said to be above that ever made 
by any other balloon this side of Europe. 

Then we come to a pause. An instant later 
the balloon begins to descend at the rate of fifteen 
feet per second, which is only one foot less than 
the distance a heavy stone falls the first second. 
A few seconds more, and our ship drops so fast 
that the car seems to fall away from us. 

Moore, sick and faint though he is, springs to 
his feet. 

" Over with ballast, boys ! Quick ! " 

Doughty drops his camera and Hazen his in- 
struments ; each dumps over the sand as he grabs 
it — bag and all. But the sand shoots up instead 
of down ; it hits the bag above, then settles like a 





cloud into the car, so that it nearly stifles us. 1 
throw out paper " dodgers" which fly into the sky 
above us with a speed which shows how rapid is 
our fall. 

Down, down we go ! We are in extreme peril. 

We all but tumble through the air. 

I gaze over the car. The earth seems to fly to- 
ward us — up, up it comes ; the fields and woods 

grow large, and hamlets and cities spring into 
sight on every hand. At last, after nearly a quarter 
of a ton of weight is thrown out, our rate of descent 
slows a little ; a third of our drag-rope trails among 
the tall forest trees, and we are distant from the 
earth but 400 feet! And now our balloon comes at 
last to a pause, and we are safe ! It goes up again 
lazily, a mile high ; then descends to less than 
half a mile, and rises again above 6000 feet — 
falling always as the gas escapes, and rising as a 
part of the weight is thrown over the side of the 
car. Moore shouts to a farm-hand at work in a 
field with horse and plow, when we are half a 
mile up : 

" How-far-are-we-from-St. -Louis ? " 

The reply faintly rises at last to where we are : 

" Twenty-five miles ! " 

We now see that our trip must come to an end 
before dark. We have been but an hour upon the 
wing. Our gas has spent its strength, our sand has 
almost run out. We dare not, if we may, stay in 
the sky at night and run the risk of death among 
the giant forest trees. And so while the sun is 
yet more than an hour high, Moore casts out 
the anchor, or grapnel ; with its four sharp prongs 
of bright steel, it truly has an ugly, hungry look. 
As we come to a wide stretch of open prairie 
land, our ship, left to itself, slyly sinks lower and 
lower, and nearer and nearer, to the bright green 
and yellow fields, over which we float as gently as 
a piece of thistle-down. About this time I let fly 
two pigeons with notes of tissue-paper tied to their 
legs, and also cast over a big envelope with a heavy 
buckshot inside to quicken its fall. 

Before long we come so close to the earth that 
all objects thereon take on their true shape. We 
perceive farmers at labor in the fields of golden 
wheat ; we catch the hoarse shouts of men, and 
the sharp treble voices of excited boys who watch 
us now with open mouth and eager eyes. We are 
yet half a mile from earth ; but each mile we pass 
brings us lower down. Now we are down to two 
thousand feet; now down to less than the half of 
that. By and by, the end of the long cable, or 
drag-rope, touches the ground at intervals as we 
gently float along at fifteen miles an hour. Now 
it trails a few feet, then fifty, then a hundred. At 
last half of it, like a huge reptile, crawls over 
meadow, and fence, and field of corn and wheat. 
It leaves behind, to mark its swift course, a deep 
crease, two inches wide in soil and grain. 

Now look out ! 

The sharp anchor catches hold for the first time. 
With its greedy prongs it grips the turf, lets go, 
bounds twenty feet in the air, and lands again; 
it once more tries its teeth in the fresh ground. 
Again the dirt flies, and the anchor bounds ahead 




and takes another bite. Moore shouts: "Steady, 
boys ; here 's a stout fence and a stone wall." 

The anchor comes to it and takes hold greedily. 
For an instant only does it hold ; it jerks our car 
upon its end, so that water-keg, pigeons, food- 
cans, and passengers tumble together in one corner. 
But then away come twenty feet of the rail-fence, 
and the stones scatter ; and we sail on as before. 

Horrors ! 

A house lies straight in our path ! As we come 
to the little story and a half cottage, our anchor 
bounds around a corner, grazes the pump in the 
front yard, then springs at the fancy fence, and 
comes away with its teeth full of palings. An 
old man and woman who stand in the front door 
stare at us, with terror in their eyes. They see 
how close they were just now to death and ruin, 
had their cozy home been pulled about their ears. 

again. At last a German farmer's wife, as we sail 
past her house, gives the long drag-rope a quick 
turn about the trunk of a stout apple-tree in her 
dooryard. This fetches us up with a vicious jerk, 
and nearly spills us out of the car. Here, tied 
fast to the tree, we are still two hours in coming to 
the ground, although aided by a crowd of strong 
active men. 

Moore pulls the valve-cord. 

As the gas escapes, the sides of the bag come 
together, and form a big kite, which catches the 
stiff breeze ; then we sail aloft nearly over the 
tree. Down settles the car to within fifty feet of 
the corn-field under us ; then the wind sends us 
aloft again. Doughty seizes the rip-cord to split 
the bag at the top, so that it may the faster lose 
its power to ascend. With surprise he finds that 
our balloon is already torn, and rips at the merest 




Our anchor keeps to its work, and though it lets go, touch ! This is a clew to the strange and sud- 
as it snatches this thing and that, it yet lessens the den loss of gas while on our way. 
speed of our air-ship. For more than ten miles we It is about 9:20 P.M. when we again set foot 
"o on in this way. We are now but a few hundred upon the ground outside our car. 
feet high, and our speed has lessened to eight We find the place to be Hoffman, Illinois, fifty- 
miles, or less, an hour. A dozen farm-hands chase five miles east of St. Louis. 

us for the last mile. They seize the anchor rope, Ne.xt day the balloon is sent back to that city by 

are lifted off their feet, but eagerly take hold rail, and we plan to start again within a week. 





But the severe injury to Moore's finger, and the 
many repairs and changes which it is thought 
best to make in the balloon, lead us to delay our 
second trip until later in the season. 

Expecting a long trip, we had taken food and 
water for three days. We had chicken, corned 
beef, beans, bread, crackers, hard-tack, sal- 
mon, lobsters, pickles, salt, vinegar, mixed nuts, 
oranges, and bananas. So you see that we were 
not likely to starve, had we gone, as we thought we 
might, into the deep w'lds of Michigan or Canada. 
We also had hooks and lines for fish, and a keen 
ax, to aid us in the woods, or wherewith to chop 
our way out of the wreck had we been cast away on 
one of the great lakes. And we had an electric light 
for use at night. Our plans had been well laid; and 
had not Moore been hurt, or had not the balloon 
been torn at the start, our voyage would perhaps 
have been more to our liking. 

A few final details may interest you. 

The last and first sound to reach us, while we 
were above a mile high, was the sharp shriek of a 
locomotive. 1 saw one express train as we soared 
above its tiny track ; and it looked like a mere 
toy train a few inches long, which did not 
seem to move faster than a snail. Yet we knew 

that it was on its way with all its usual speed — 
thirty miles an hour at least. 

During our voyage we ate and drank just as we 
might have done at a picnic. 

Truly, we lived "high." A luncheon above the 
clouds was to me a very novel affair. 1 threw over 
the peel of an orange. Down, straight down, it 
shot, a flash of gold in the sun, a hundred feet — a 
thousand feet — a mile. Long before it struck the 
earth, it had gone out of sight. But, before it 
disappeared, it came to a point where it seemed 
to still stand in mid-air. x 

1 dropped a big IVor/d envelope. 

It went down at first upon its edge ; then 
it began to turn, and now and again the sun's rays 
caught it full upon its broad side. It became at 
last as small as a postage-stamp, or the nail of 
your thumb. 

I wish I had the space to tell you more. 

From my mind's eye our World balloon trip 
will never fade. 1 may truly say that I then saw 
more of the earth than 1 am likely to see until I go 
aloft again. Within a few hours, more novel 
sounds and scenes met my senses with surprise 
and delight than in years of prosy hfe upon the 

By Edith M. Thomas. 


Oh, the child a poet is ! 
Poet's pleasures too are his : 
Would he had the art to tell 
What he sees and hears so well, — 
How the hills so love the sky 
In its tender haze they lie ; 
How the sky so loves the streams. 
Every pool has heavenly dreams. 
He can guess what says the breeze, 
Sighing, singing, through the trees; 
What the sunbeam, what the rain. 
Or the smoke's slow-mounting train ; 
All the meaning of the birds, 
Which they will not put in words ; 
And the tree-toad's mystic trill 
Heard from far at evening still ; 
And the beckoning ways and looks 
Of the flowers in dewy nooks — 
Yes ! and of the dewdrops fine. 
In the early morning-shine ! 
He has friends where ye have none ; 
Fellows in a rush or stone ; 
Palace-royal in the clouds. 
Sunset barge with sails and shrouds. 
Oh, the child a poet is. 
Though unskilled in harmonies; 
Would he had the art to tell 
What he hears and sees so well, 


Ere his senses, grown less keen, 
Say they have not heard nor seen. 
(Let him not too quickly lose 
These rare pleasures, gracious Muse.) 


Now the poet is a child. 

Whom the years have not beguiled 

To forget the magic lore 

That is childhood's careless store. 

Oh, the poet is a child! 

And he loves the new and wild ; 

But the old to him is new. 

And what seems but tame to \ou 

He with kind delight can see 

Laugh in its sweet liberty ! 

He is foiled and cheated never, — 

Poet's truth is truth forever ! 

Though his song you may not heed. 
Though his rhyme you will not read. 
Song and rhyme true records hold 
Of your morning age of gold. 
What you saw in that fair time. 
Wild, or lovely, or sublime 
In the mountains, groves, or streams, 
Clear upon his vision gleams. 
What you heard of strange report 
Throughout Nature's fields and court. 
Told of man or dreamt of God, 
Still he hears spread all abroad. 

If you do not see and hear, 
'T is for time-worn eye and ear : 
Child and poet shall not sever — 
Poet's truth is truth forever ! 

Vol. XV.— lo. 


By Edmund Alton. 

A COLD December day, 
five years ago, marks the 
beginning of the story I 
i' am asked to write. It was 
.^■3 Sunday morning, just two 
"~^weeks and a day before 
; J Christmas. The wintry 
-'' windwas scudding through 
thestreetsof Portland, Maine, 
vhistling and whirling the snow 
■ before it as it went. A lady sat 
in her pleasant room thinking 
of the cheerless houses of the 
poor, of pale women and weak 
men and delicate little ones, 
without food, without fire, with- 
t clothing. She thought of 
Christmas and the homes of the rich, 
of stockings distending with their loads, of fair faces 
rosy with delight, of turkeys and plum puddings, and 
mistletoe boughs and holly, and blazing logs and 
ringinglaughter. And asshe thoughtof these happy 
things her heart went out in pity to those hungry 
little faces and shivering little frames, to whom 
Christmas was but a day of want and misery — and 
Santa Claus unknown. And then a noble impulse 
seized her: " Oh ! they must, they shall know San- 
ta Claus ! Christmas shall be to them a day of 
gladness ! " But it was more easily said than done. 
Alone she could do but little. Hundreds of hands 
would be needed. In this dilemma a beautiful 
thought came to her: "The hands of children ! 
The happy, loving boys and girls of Portland — 
they will do it ! " 

Before the end of the week a host of children, 
in answer to her written call, assembled at the 
lady's house. The result of that meeting, as re- 
corded in history, was : To form a club which 
should last "forever"; to call it "The Children's 
Christmas Club "; to have for its motto : " Freely 
ye have received, freely give": to place the mem- 
bership fee at ten cents, so that no child should 
be prevented from joining because he was not 
"rich"; to make no distinctions in regard to 
sect or nationality ; to permit to join the club 
any girl or boy under eighteen years of age who 
accepted its principles, which were : To be ready 
at all times with kind words to assist children 
less fortunate than themselves ; to make every 
year, in Christmas week, a festival of some kind 
for them ; to save through the year toys, books, 

and games, instead of carelessly destroying them; 
to save, and, whenever practicable, put in good 
repair all out-grown clothing ; to beg nothing 
from any source, but to keep as the key-stone of 
the club the word "GIVE"; to pay every year a 
tax of ten cents; and to make their first festival 
in the City Hall on Thursday, December 28, 1882. 

Officers were chosen and the day's session came 
to an end. The news spread over the town. At 
the hour and place of re-assembling three hun- 
dred children were on hand, all eager to be 
enrolled as members of the club. Old folk, also, 
came along to give encouragement and advice. 
The organization was perfected; the enthusiastic 
children entered upon their work ; and, true to the 
programme which they had arranged, when Holy 
Innocents' Day appeared, they served a Christmas 
dinner to six hundred little guests, and introduced 
to Santa Claus six hundred grateful, joyful little 

About eleven months after this banquet in the 
City Hall, at Portland. St. Nicholas put forth 
its Christmas number for 1883. The entire con- 
tents of that number none of you may now 
remember, but one feature you can scarcely for- 
get. It was an open letter to yourselves — to all 
the boys and girls in the world. It told in tender, 
loving words, the story of the Portland club; and 
the writer of the letter — a lady, of course — closed 
with an appeal to ST. NICHOLAS to ask its readers 
if there should not be other Christmas clubs that 
year? if all the children in every city, every town, 
and every village, should not have one good din- 
ner, one happy day, every year ? And then, down 
at the end of the letter, in large capital letters, 
appeared the command of the Master, added by 
good St. Nicholas: "GO THOU AND DO 

And so St. Nicholas, faithful courier that it 
is, carried that open letter to the girls and boys of 
" North America, South America, Europe, Asia, 
Africa, and Australia," just as it was asked; nor 
did it neglect, in its great conti- 
nental trip, the islands of the sea. 
Exactly what was done by the 
young folk of New Zealand 
when they read that letter 
and the injunction of ST. 
Nicholas, I have 
not yet heard, 
and I also await ""STs^J^'i&Hij j-" 




full particulars of its effect upon young people in 
other parts of the tuo hemispheres. 

But that communication reached the city of 
Washington, in the District of Columbia, on or 
about the 25th day of November. Furthermore, it 
was read. It was read by the young folk to whom 
it was addressed ; it was read by 
the mothers and fathers to whom it 
was not addressed, but who exer- 
cised the right, as guardians, of over- 
looking the correspondence (Jf the 
young folk ; and it was read by other 
grown-up people who claimed that 
privilege as lovers of good literature 
and good deeds. And when that 
letter had been read the mothers 
and the fathers and the other grown- 
up folk thus answered (^ the boys 
and girls : "The Cityof Washington 
shall have a Christmas Club this 
year ! " 

The letter was published in full 
in one of the evening papers of the 
city, and the editor, in vigorous lines 
of his own, aroused the community 
to action. Two days after that 
a call for gentlemen volunteers ap- 
peared in the same journal ; the 
gentlemen promptly came forward, 
they united with the ladies who 
were assisting the young folk, and 
soon the "Children's Christmas 
Club of Washington" became an 
institution and a fact. 

The principles and methods of 
the original Christmas Club, as 
described in St. Nicholas, were 
closely adhered to, only minor de- 
partures, or those demanded by the 
situation, being made. Owing to 
its large population the city was 
divided into four districts ; one, 
known as District 11., embraced the 
central and northern part of Wash- 
ington, and the other districts were 
located to the east, to the south, 
and to the west. Each district had 
a separate organization of children, with sepa- 
rate officers and committees. In District II., for 
instance, the President of the club was Miss Nellie 
Arthur, the daughter of the President of the 
United States; and the older folk formed them,- 
selves into a Ladies' Committee and a Gentle- 
men's Committee, and good-naturedly stood in the 
background prepared to help when needed, but 
not to interfere. And thus it came to pass that on 
Holy Innocents' Day, in 1883, the Portland scene of 

1882 was reproduced, and eighteen hundred chil- 
dren, gathered in four different sections of the 
Federal City, enjoyed the hospitality of their more 
prosperous friends. To the banquet hall of Dis- 
trict II. came plants and evergreens from the 
White House, and from the same old mansion 


came the small President of the club escorting the 
big President of the Republic ; and to that hall 
came also the Chief Justice of the United States, 
and Washington's white-haired philanthropist; 
and thither came also the Marine Rand, and Punch 
and Judy, and Santa Claus, and a number of other 
important personages anxious to see five hundred 
little people eat, and to hear five hundred little 
people laugh. And they were not disappointed. 
For it was a scene of fullness and a day of joy. 




But the children of Washington, like their com- 
rades of Portland, were resolved that their club 
should last "forever"; and so, the following 
year, a second festival was made. The number of 
district clubs, by a misfortune to one of them, had 
been reduced to three, but the number of guests 
was undiminished. In District II. 750 were enter- 
tained, and, .TS before, came the little and the big 
Presidents, the Chief Justice and the Philanthro- 
pist, and the Marine Band with its big bass drum 
and clashing cymbals, and Santa Claus with his 
jingling bells. And the children in the other dis- 
tricts did their part of the noble work, and swelled 
the number of the entertained to nearly two thou- 

As concerns the number of beneficiaries in 

the prestige of all these Presidents, the club spread 
out its feast of '85 ; and, in the presence of the 
Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and of the wife 
of the Secretary of State, and of the venerable 
philanthropist, and of the Marine Band, and of 
all the rest, the guests of that club demolished 
the feast. 

With the advent of December, 1886, came again 
the sound of preparations. The club got itself 
together, and the members paid in their fees of 
ten cents each. T*e advisory board of ladies and 
gentlemen took charge of administrative details. 
The donations began to pour in — money, cloth- 
ing, toys, picture-cards, and offers of omnibuses to 
carry guests too small to walk. 

The feast given by District II. was held on the 


the three districts, the festival of 1885 did not dif- 
fer from that of 1884. President Arthur had, 
however, surrendered the White House to another 
gentleman, and had taken to her home in New 
York the little President of District II. But the 
residents of Washington would not allow so good 
an institution as the Christmas Club to perish, and 
the new Administration was only too glad to lend a 
hand. So, in the choice of new officers, caused 
by the turn in political affairs. Miss Mollie Vilas, 
the daughter of the Postmaster-General of the 
United States, was elected President of the club, 
in place of Miss Nellie Arthur, who was made a 
Vice-President ; the sister of the President of the 
United States became President of the Ladies' 
Committee, and the President of the Board of 
Commissioners of the District of Columbia became 
President of the Gentlemen's Committee. With 

28th day of December, at the National Rifles' 
armory, and began at two o'clock in the after- 
noon. The club had sent out si.x hundred cards 
of invitation, and these had been judiciously dis- 
tributed among the children of the poor. Long 
before the hour, the guests began to arrive. Those 
who came armed with invitations, formed in line 
on the pavement facing east; those without cards 
formed an opposing line facing west. Both lines 
rapidly grew in length, and by two o'clock, when 
the last omnibus discharged its numerous freight, 
the lines extended an entire block, two, three, and 
four children deep. It required the efforts of sev- 
eral stalwart lieutenants and sergeants of police, and 
of about a dozen privates, to prevent those lines from 
blending into a great and shapeless mob. 

Within the drill-room on the entrance floor, six 
long tables had been spread, each with a hundred 




plates. Turkey, cranberry sauce, apples, oranges, 
graced each plate ; and back in the distance stood 
the caterer, with his ice-cream freezers and stores of 
cake. At the various tables, twenty boys with 
pretty badges, and twenty girls with natty caps and 
aprons, — all members of the club, — were stationed 
as waiters ; while the ladies and gentlemen stood, 
some at tables, others about the room, to render 
general assistance. 

Everything being ready, the doors were opened, 
and the guests were admitted in single file, a little 
girl on crutches leading. Around and about 
the great wide room the long procession passed, 
leaving a child at every plate. When every plate 
had been accommodated with a child, silence 
was requested. Every little tongue was stilled, 
every little head bent low, and a minister offered 
prayer. Then the gentleman in charge took the 
floor. The guests looked eagerly at their plates 
and imploringly at the gentleman. His speech 
was practical and brief: "Now, children, eat 
your Christmas dinner." 

The opening shout, the rattle of knives and 
forks, the hum of children talking between the 
bites, the exclamations, the laughter, and all the 
other little details which punctuated the scene, the 
imagination must supply. The dinner lasted 
nearly an hour — an hour of bliss to those within 
the room, and an hour of terrible suspense to 
those who still stood on the pavement without, a 
remnant of the "uninvited" line, and late arri- 
vals, waiting for their turn. Of course it came. 

The dinner was only the first and substantial 
part of the exercises. Above the drill-room was 
the armory hall. Upon the floor hundreds of 
empty chairs awaited the guests below; in the 
gallery were gathered the Marine Band and mem- 
bers of the club. The noise of ascending foot- 
steps reached the leader; he waved his baton, 
and to the majestic air of "Three Blind Mice," 
the children, replete and beaming, marched in and 
down the center aisle, and took their seats. The 
spokesman of the club arose and clapped his 
hands. The children thought he was cheering 
something, so they did the same. Finally, he got 
a chance to make his second speech : " All that I 
have to do is, in the name of the Children's 
Christmas Club of this district, to wish you all a 
very happy Christmas ! " 

The "first thing on the programme " was the 
magic lantern. The lights were turned down, and 
a white disk was shot upon the canvas. Then 

came a magnified spider. It was greeted with an 
" oh ! " that lasted, if I mistake not, a full minute. 
Then came the head of the same spider, as a 
second picture ; the claw, as a third. It was diffi- 
cult for the spectators to understand the vagaries 
of the microscope. They took the word of the 
" magic-lanternman," as far as possible, but when 
he showed them a great, big bird that looked like 
a crane, and said that it was a " flea," and then an- 
other "chunkier" bird, and called it a " mosquito," 
and then presented a large honey-comb, the cells 
of which he said were but a few of two thousand 
eyes owned by the common house-fly, the specta- 
tors broke into a laugh. It was a severe tax on 
their faith. So the lanterner abandoned science, 
and regained their confidence by pictures of rivers 
and steamboats, and dogs, and humorous people 
and things. 

Following the magic lantern, came " Old Joe," 
who got upon the stage and did some funny act- 
ing; and then — I forget what the band played 
when he entered, for I was watching the door — 
in from the street came Santa Claus. The distri- 
bution of gifts was to follow. I knew that no one 
would be forgotten. So, while Miss MoUie Vilas 
and her companion. Miss May Huddlestone, and 
the assisting ladies and gentlemen, were giving to 
each child an appropriate present, in addition to a 
bag of candy and a picture, I went below to view 
the field of carnage and gather some statistics. The 
drill-room was deserted. Seven hundred and six- 
teen little mortals had gone to battle with sixty- 
four big turkeys, weighing five hundred and fifty 
pounds. The mortals were alive and, at that 
moment, well and in the hall above. I looked 
around to see what they had left. The plates were 
there and so were the knives and forks. 

"Does anything else remain?" I asked. 

The caterer shook his head, and answered; 
"Nothing but the bones ! " 

So ends my sketch — a fragment of unfinished, 
universal history. For even as I write, thousands 
of miles from home, and Christmas, '87, scarcely yeL 
in sight, I picture to myself the clubs of Portland 
and of Washington re-assembling for their annual 
work, and hosts of other busy, emulous little bodies 
organizing in our own and foreign lands, vieing to 
outdo the past. Let the national and international 
rivalries of old folk be what they may — the histor- 
ian of the young shall recount their rivalry only 
in good deeds. 


Bv Emma Kail Parrish. 



~2^HE sentiment of the above lines, like 


a great many others, handed down 
to us from that venerated school- 
ma'am. Mother Goose, is in the 
last degree sensible, and it has a fine 
point, as pins and sentiments ought 
to have. It means, in a wide sense, "strike while 
the iron is hot," which is a homely version of 
" whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with 
thy might." 

Did you ever live through a pin famine ? I did, 
once. It was during the war. The head of our 
family, kind provider and sympathizer, was "at 
the front," and ways and means of living were 
sometimes precarious. Pins cost a great deal in 
those days — I don't remember how much. Our 
family's stock of pins was reduced to two ; those 
were carried by Mother, who lent them to us when 
imperatively needed. Naturally, our thoughts 
dwelt much upon the subject of pins, and we felt 
many vague and useless longings for a good sup- 
ply. How were we to get any ? There was no 
money to spare for such luxuries. I often wondered, 
in those days, how the stately and gracefully looped 
ancients managed without those very useful little 
articles, and I decided that they either used thorns 
and fish-hooks or glued their clothes together. 

While the famine was at its height, my mother 
devised a plan. Mother declared there must be 
thousands of lost pins lying about the streets, if in 
our little household we had made way with 
upward of five hundred within the year. Acting 
upon this idea, she made two little cushions, which 
she gathered daintily upon the tops of two empty 
spools, finishing them with a tiny valance with pink- 
ed edges. Mother gave one of these to each of us, 
telling us to use our eyes, and see which of us could 
first fill her cushion. 

It is surprising how many pins you can see 
when you have pins in your eye. John Burroughs 
tells how to find rare plants, the walking fern, 
nests of shy birds, and many other hidden things. 
He says we must go abroad with these things in 
our eye, determined to find them. My sister 

declared that she saw pins in her sleep; that if 
there was one on the street, a block away, she 
caught its glitter. Straight pins, crooked pins, 
shawl-pins, needles, all were found, in surprising 
numbers, — on the stairs at school, on the floor of 
the recitation-room, on the sidewalk, in the yard, 
and even in our own pin-famished house. 

In a few dajs we had over a hundred pins on 
each of our little cushions, and we might have 
rolled in pins, if we had so wished, all of them 
" nobody's pins " until we discovered and captured 

Don't imagine that you 're going to be let off 
without a moral. I pointed one for myself from 
this episode, a long time ago. It was on this 
wise : Sometimes, while washing the dishes or 
sweeping a floor, a thought would strike me, — that 
event is likely to happen to people. A great many 
persons speak out their thought, and then forget 
all about it. But being reticent, and, moreover, 
having an idea that my thoughts might at some 
time be of literary value, I wished to save them. 
So, when some fancied bright idea would occur to 
me, 1 would say, " Ha ! I '11 jot that down : it will 
be useful some day." But alas ! I never jotted, or 
very rarely, because I was sweeping the front 
hall, or mixing the dough, or sewing on a button; 
and by the time those things were done, and my 
pen was in my hand, my idea was gone. Some- 
times, with hard trying, I could recall it; but more 
often it had joined the forces of the invisible. This 
caused some bitterness of heart, and repinings at 
enforced labor, also repeated admonitions to my- 
self to be more careful. But I seldom was more 
careful, and it grew to be my opinion that I was 
letting my not too powerful faculties run to waste. 
Perhaps, like the study of Greek, it was good 
mental discipline. Still, one can't help feeling 
that to remember Greek is a long way ahead of 
merely studying it ; and to have preserved those 
little "thinks" would have pleased me much bet- 
ter than only to have thought them. 

About that time I read somewhere of a "com- 
monplace book," and knew at once it was the 



thing I needed. I procured a blank book, and 
waited for an idea. The first idea that came 
trotting into the trap of my brain was such a fool- 
ish little one, that it seemed silly to set it down ; 
but I thought, " If I don't make a beginning, 
when will I begin ? " So 1 took the little stray and 
fastened it into my book. Well, that little idea 
was the herd-leader, so to speak ; and so many 
ideas ambled along after it, that 1 was quite busy 
for a little while jotting them down. 

Not all of those thoughts, as written then, wera^. 
directly useful in a literary way ; but there is no 
doubt that the mere writing of them helped me to 
think. If you are going to walk a mile, you can 
never do it unless you put your foot down and go ! 
If you want bodily strength, you must use your 
muscles often and systematically. If you want 
mental strength, you must use the "muscles" of 
your mind. 

When we were children, it pleased us to be told 
that we were growing. The mind should grow 
every day of its life. 

A commonplace book is very like the pin- 
cushion my mother gave me. Before I owned the 
the cushion, I saw very few pms. After I set 
it up for use, pins appeared at every corner. Be- 
fore my book was opened, ideas were scarce ; 

afterward they were abundant. It is true, they 
were not great and lofty thoughts; but I do 
not lay claim to a great and lofty order of mind, 
and they were decent, wholesome, nourishing 
thoughts, and much better than no thoughts at 
all. Not that one would wish to put his or her 
every thought into a book to be printed, or into 
an essay to be read before a literary club. You 
don't make every new dress or buy every new suit 
with the intention of having your photograph 
taken in it. Your intention with most of them, I 
hope, is to please yourself, your parents, your 
friends, to be neat and comfortable. And you 
do not care most of all, I hope, to be great, or 
famous ; but to grow and improve and elevate your 
minds till you can appreciate the thoughts of 
the great, improve and elevate the thoughts of 
the little, and enjoy the thoughts of the "middle- 

Keen, bright, thoughtful girls and boys who can 
say bright, kind and thoughtful things, on any 
occasion, and to all classes of people, and can 
appreciate everything good that is said, are most 
desirable members of society. They can perpet- 
uate sunshine and music in their own homes, and 
can lend a ray to brighten and beautify all other 
homes into which they enter. 



Dear Children : My mis- 
tress's name is Daisy, too, and 

I think it must have been her 

doll that wrote the letter to you 

in St. Nicholas, last March. 

She is a very selfish doll, for she 

never wants Daisy to pet me 

at all. 

Cats can't help being cats, 

'cause they are born kittens, 

and then grow to be cats. If 

I could have been born a doll, 
I think I would be a better doll than Lucy. Cats catch mice and rats, 
but dolls don't do anything. Daisy is good to me and I am good to Daisy. 
I never scratched her or bit her in my life. Isn't that a sign of a good cat ? 
You can see Lucy is a bad doll. If she was good she would n't say that 
her mother doesn't know any better than to like me. I don't believe your 
dolls talk about you in that way. 

My name is Tillie. Is n't that a pretty name for a cat? I like children 
and I like good dolls ; but I don't like Lucy, and you would n't like her 
either, if you knew her. I can purr poetry and Lucy can't. Here is 
some poetry that Daisy made for me. 

I'm a little kitten cat. 
Tillie is my name ; 
Mistress Daisy called me that, 
'Cause I'm very tame. 

To the J^C7'y Little Folk, 

Care of St. Nicholas. 

Little children with me play. 
And they love me, too ; 
This is all I have to say. 
Good-bye, now, to you. 

Yours purringly, 



[copied BV permission, from a photograph by ROBERT FAULKNER, 21 BAKER STREET, LONDON, ENC,LAND.| 




f"^l '.'i'i 


Before long, my friends, the very air will be 
blithe with "Merry Christmas!" brisk young 
hemlocks will rustle their way into the sunny 
homes of Christendom, and millions of tiny flames 
will bud on the branches, and all because the best 
and holiest of holidays has come. Peace, joy and 
gratitude be with you, my happy ones ! And may 
your hearts be full of kindness, and your hands 
busy with good deeds ! 
Now you shall hear about 


Dear Jack ; I suppose all of your boys and girls have read the 
old ditty, telling how once four and twenty blackbirds were baked in 
a pie, and how, when the pie was opened, the birds began to sing, — 
and they have wisely considered the story a very impossible one, 
but it is not without some foundation, after all. A common dish 
on Queen Elizabeth's table, at Christmas and other great festivities, 
was, we are told, a monster pie, from which, when opened, there 
flew a number of birds that, lighting in various parts of the dining- 
room, used to sing sweetly to the guests at table. 

Another famous pie made its appearance at an entertainment 
given by the Duk'; of Buckingham to Queen Henrietta, the wife of 
Charles the First, of England. When the crust was removed, one 
Geoffrey Hudson, a tiny dwarf dressed to represent Santa Claus. 
stood revealed to the astonished company. 

Still another celebrated Christmas pie was made in 1769, for Sir 
Henry Grey. It was " composed of two bushels of flour, twenty 
pounds of butter, four geese, two turkeys, two rabbits, two wild 
ducks, two woodcocks, six snipes, four partridges, two neats' tongues, 
two curlews, seven blackbirds, and seven pigeons." 

This culinary marvel, as one may well call it, was about nine feet in 
circumference ; it weighed two hundred pounds, and several strong 
men were required to bear it safely to the table. E. ^I. C. 


I AM requested by my birds to say that during 
the winter season their favorite brands of crumb 
are the bread and cracker varieties. 


Don't you think so, girls ? Your Jack knows 
very little about it, but he thinks it must be queer 

or the little girl would n't say so ; or, at least our 
friend Maria 1. Hammond would n't say in these 
verses that the little girl says so. 

I HEARD a little girl say, " Well, really, it is queer, 
But making Christmas presents keeps me busy 

all the year ! 
In January I begin, and long before I 'm through 
Here comes December, round again, and Christ- 
mas with it, too ! 
It was the last of February, I remember well, 
When I finished Mother's scarlet shawl in crazy 

stitch and shell ; 
In March I made a skate-bag, and Tot's reins of 

macreme ; 
In April worked a cushion bright, with here and 

there a spray ! 
In May, it was, I made a plaque of gay and glitter- 
ing brass — 
I '11 never make another, for it hurt my eyes, alas ! 
In June I worked a splasher full of blue wild roses, 

Was very much admired — it was done in outline 

In July (the heat was frightful!) let me see — 

what did I do ? 
Oh, I tied a gilt scrap-basket with bows of peacock 

blue ! 
And in August, at Bar Harbor I collected pine 

To make two lovely pillows of this what-d'-you-call- 

it stuff ! 
In September I was painting on a set of dessert 

plates : 
The first one had a seckel pear — the last a bunch 

of dates ; 
In October they were finished, and when Novem- 
ber came, 
I made of daintiest cretonne a sort of album frame ! 
And in December, quickly flew the short and busy 

With making newsboys candy bags, and paper 

bonbon flowers. 
.So really," said this little girl, " I must say, though 

't is queer, 
This making Christmas presents keeps me busy 

all the year." 


Should you like to hear a true story, written by 
a little city girl as a composition ? The dear 
Little School-ma'am sends it to you with her com- 

My Thanksgiving Day Adventure. 

I WAS two years younger two years ago than I 
am now. This makes me seven years old when I 
had an adventure. 

I went with my father and mother to a nice farm- 
house in the country to spend Thanksgiving. It 
had n't come yet when we got there, for it was 
two days off. I had great fun, and I learned to 
ride a pretty little donkey. He was named Saffo, 
and he was so gentle that he would let you pull 
his ears. Well, the farmer was a kind man, and 




I asked him if he was going to get a turkey for 
Thanksgiving dinner. He said: " Now I '11 tell you 
what I '11 do, little Miss. If you will take Saffo 
and ride over the bridge to the barn-yard, and 
if you can count the turkeys you see there, I'll give 
you one on purpose for Thanksgiving, but you 
must count every turkey there is." 

So Mamma said I might try ; and Papa put me 
on Saffo, and I started to count all the turkeys 
over in the barn-yard. I knew then how to count 
up as high as a hundred. But when we came to 
the bridge Saffo and I got such a fright ! A mon- 
strous bird, making more noise than he could, 
came running to meet us, and he stopped right 
on the bridge as mad as he could be, and his tail 

and all his feathers stuck out, and he would n't 
let us pass him at all. He was awful! So we 
had to turn back and gallop as fast as we could. 
I knew what he was, because his noise sounded 
like " gobble, gobble, gobble ! " 

Well, the farmer would have laughed at us for 
being afraid to cross the bridge to the barn-yard, 
so I told him I only counted one, and he need n't 
mind about having turkey for Thanksgiving. But 
he said he would see about it. And what do you 
think ? We did have one, all the same, when the 
day came, and doughnuts and mince pie afterward. 

I was sorry for any poor bird to be roasted ; but 
I think that turkeys are a great deal too fierce 
when they are not cooked. 

"HE wouldn't let us PASS HIM AT ALL." 


Hennptmont, St. Germain, Seine et Oise, France. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little girl, ten years old. I live in a 
beautiful castle near the River Seine. 1 have a pet dog called Mahdi. 
We sit together under the trees, and I read your nice magazine quite 
alone. 1 like " The Brownies " best. 

I hope ver>', \ery much you will print this letter. And 1 remain, 
your constant reader and faithful admirator, 

Agla6 Zo:£ Calothi, of Constantinople. 

P. S. — Mamma says this letter is badly written, but I don't want 
to copy it. 

New London, Conn. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I have never written you before. I hope 
you will print this. The stories I like best are " Little Lord Faunt- 
leroy " and " The Story of Prince Fairyfoot." I will not write much 
more, for I know some other little boy or girl is just as eager to have 
his or her letter printed. I just wish to say, I think your stories arc 
lovely (which is very mild praise), and 1 hope you will never stop 
them. So, good-bye, Bessie S , 

There are nineteen springs in all ; the oldest and hottest of which 
is the Sprudel, which is 167 degrees Fahrenheit. 

Baskets of flowers are often put in the Sprudel, and left there for 
ten days : and when they are taken out again, they are changed into 
stone of a very ugly color. 

I am very much interested in " Historic Girls." I have been reading 
Carlyle's " History of Frederick the threat " ; and I think Frederick s 
sister Wilhelmina would make a very interesting subject. 

Vour devoted reader, S. C. C . 

Dear St. Nicholas : A friend ga^e me, a short time ago, sonit: 
Korean stamps forsome little boy at home ; and as I know of no one 
who is making a collection, it occurs to me that among vour many 
little subscribers there must be a few who would be glad of these 
stamps ; since, because of their rarity, they bring a dollar a stamp at 
home. As the Korean post-ofhce existed but a day, — its projectors 
being killed or exiled in the riot of "36, — the stamps arc no longer in 
pnnt. If you will not consider it a trouble, please let the little fellows 
know this, and bid them send their names and addresses to me, and I 
will send each, one Korean and perhaps a Japanese stamp. They 
need not, of course, send a " stamp for reply." 

We all, young and old, enjoy your very delightful magazine; and 
when my little daughter reaches the letter-writing age, she will send 
Jack-in-the-Pulpit a letter about this queer country. 

Sincerely yours, Loulie Scranton. 

P.S. — The boys may address, l\Irs.\Vm. R. Scranton, Soul, Korea. 

Peoi;ia, III. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am ten years old, and five feet two inches 
tall. My older sister, Edie, or rather Edith, takes St. Nicholas, 
and I like " Juan and Juanita." Very many things the writer 
speaks about in the last chapter I know about, as we lived six years 
in San Antonio, Texas, and I have seen the old missions, San 
Jose and Concepcion, and have tasted tortillas. The Mexicans are 
mostly all " half-breeds." When they have a " norther," the Mexican 
men go to bed and stay there, and their wives stay up and cook the 
food, and do all the work. When it is fair weather, the women cook 
candy with nuts in it, called pcpetoria^ and a sort of molasses 
candy called inalecochc, and the men go out and sell it. I have 
seen the old Alamo. There is a man there who says he can show 
you the exact place where Davy Crockett fell. 

I ha\e a brother who is sixteen years old, and si,\ feet tall. 

I am. your interested reader, .A■^T^■ B 

C.XRLSBAD, Bohemia. 

De.\r St, Nicholas : Ever since I was si.x years old (and now I 
am more than twelve) I have looked forward with pleasure, every 
month, to the coming of your delightful magazine. We have been 
in Europe for a year and more, and it has always reached me safely, 
although we have been traveling about in a great many different 
countries. Just now we are in Carlsbad, and in a few days we expect 
to go to Prague; it is in the palace there that the two imperial 
counselors were thrown out of the window, which was the immedi- 
ate cause of the thirty years' war. There are a great many curious 
customs here, which I suppose might be called Bohemian. 

Several bands play every morning at the different springs, from 
six o'clock to eight, and then all the world goes to drink the waters. 
As soon as the music stops, the people all disperse in difTerent direc- 
tions to the numerous cafes for their breakfast, and stop on the 
way to buy their bread, which they carry in red paper bags; and it 
really looks very odd to see all the people walking with these red 
paper bags. 

The principal street here is called the " Alte Wiese," and it is lined 
with attractiv 

Los Angeles, Cal. 

Dear St. Nicholas ; Having just returned from Greenland, I 
thought I would write to you about it. I spent the winter there with 
my cousin, and had a very nice time. 

The morning just before I went away, the snow was far above our 
door. Whenever I went out, I always wore snow-shoes. I felt very 
queer when I first put them on. I could hardly walk. I like it in 
Los Angeles better than in Greenland, because it is not so cold. It is 
just tike a cool simimer here in winter, with all the flowers bloom- 
ing, and everything green. 

Your loving reader, Helen S . 

Dublin, Ireland. 

Dear St.Nicholas: We have been taking you for about four 
years, and we like you very much. I am very much interested in 
the paper canoes and Nantucket sinks. They are rather hard to 
make at first, but we have made them both. I hope you will have 
some more. 

We like the " Brownies " \'ery much, and we have great fun with 
each new number of the magazine, in finding the Chinaman and 
several others, especially the Irishman. I will be sixteen years old 
on the 2ist of October, and my sister Kathleen will be fifteen on the 
4th of October. 

We spent last summer in County Wicklow, which is one of the 
prettiest counties in Ireland. The scenery is beautiful. We had a 
little pony and phaeton, and we drove out every day. 

With best wishes for S"r. Nicholas, yours, 

^L A. D . 

Bri:ssels, Belgium. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have been in Brussels only three days, 
but have seen a great deal, as there is not so much to see as one finds 
in most European cities. 

Yesterday we went to the famous field of Waterloo. A great 
many people go out in four-horse stage-coaches, but it takes about 
two hours, so we decided to go in the trsin to a small town where we 
got on a stage, and rode to the field ; they have built a large monu- 
ment of earth, like a pyramid (which took four years to build, with 
the Belgian lion on top), where the Duke of Wellington held his 
army. There were steps to the top of the monument, — two hundred 
and twenty-five: I was ready to drop when I reached the top. Wc 
had a splendid view of the surrounding country. The guide pointed 
out the different places of interest, — where Napoleon held his rrmy, 
and how he had nearly made Wellington surrender when those both- 
ersome Prussians came up. 

At the little hotel at the foot of the monument called the Musee, 
we saw the different things picked up after the battle. I bought one 
of the bullets that were found; they had swords and cannon-balls', 
and skulls pierced by bullets, etc. 

We were told that when Wellington went there some years after 
the battle, he said he would not come again, for the monument had 
spoiled his battle-field. 

Bnussels is considered a small Paris ; but what 1 hate are the hills : 
the carriages tear down hill and around corners in (to me) a horri- 
ble way. I would rather have Rome with its seven hills. As for the 
stores, they can not be compared with Paris; on a tight squeeze you 
could see Brussels, Waterloo, and all in about twodays, but for me it is 
two too many. Papa says I am a very hard judge, so you must make 
allowances. Some of the street-cars run by electricity here ; it looks 
too funny to see them going along without horses. 

We came here from Honiburg, where we have spent the month of 
August. The place is crowded in that month with English and Amer- 
icans; it is half an hour in the train from Frankfort-on-the-Main ; 
there are fi^e springs, and between half-past six and nine, before 




breakfast, every morning, you will find the Elizabeth-brunnen and the 
park surrounding the spring, crowded with people, a band playing, 
and people walking up and down the long avenue of trees, after tak- 
ing the waters ; it is a pretty sight. English is spoken on every side. 
I like it much better than either Wiesbaden or Baden Baden. In the 
afternoon the people Hock to the music ; after that to the tennis, where 
in the season I have seen twenty-five courts going at once ; two days 
before I came away, they had a tournament, and the Prince of Wales 
gave the winners gold scarf-pins. 1 sat right behind the Prince and his 
sister, the Princess Christian. I was introduced to Mr. Blaine, while I 
was there ; and often saw the Empress of Germany. 

We are going to Egypt this winter, and I will write you from 
among the pyramids. LfU'ifi C . 

St. Louis, Mo. 

Dear St. Nicholas : We wrote to you once before, but our letter 
was not printed, so Mamma said we might try again and perhaps 
it would be this time. We told you how much we enjoyed all the 
nice stories, e.specially "Juan and Juanita." 

We both lake lessons on the violin, and the other evening we 
played a duet at some private theatricals given by a friend. At first 
we felt rather frightened, but when it was over, every one said we 
had played it very well. 

Our uncle gave Mamma a parrot that talks French, and when- 
ever a stranger comes into the room, he always says, ^^Bonjo7ir" and 
'^PaHcz voies/ra7i(ais r' in such a funny tone of voice that he makes 
us all laugh. His name is Jacquot, and he is awfully pretty, with 
green, white and scarlet feathers, and a funny top-knot. 

Mamma says we would better close now, as she is afraid you won't 
print such a long letter. With love from your Httle friends, 

Clarencb and Clifford. 

Pemblrv, K.E.WT, England. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have taken you for a great many years, 
but have never written you a letter before. 

I go to school in New York in the winter, for I am an American 
girl. I take French, Latin, and all English subjects. In the summer 
I learn Latin and arithmetic with my father, and this summer I 
have commenced Greek. 

In your September number there is an article on " The First Paper 
Canoe, " by H. E, , who said that he (or she) had never seen an Ameri- 
can child who could fold it all the way through to the end. My bro- 
thers and I used to make them, but we always called them " Chinese 
Junks," so I thought perhaps H. E. would like to know about 
it. Of your stories, I like "Juan and Juanita " and "Jenny's 
Boarding-house" the best, although "Fiddle-John's Family" is 
very nice. Yours sincerely, 

Sheila W . (Aged 12.) 

P. S. — When I am sufficiently proficient in Greek, I will write you 
a letter in that language. 

Paterson, N. J. 

Dear St. Nicholas : As you are known by reputation to be a 
jolly old Saint, interested in the pleasures and occupations of the 
children all over the globe, and, as from your age I should suppose 
you to be stuffed with knowledge on every subject, I should like to 
ask you a few questions upon a subject in which 1 am deeply inter- 
ested, but which nobody seems to know anything about. 

My brother and I think we should like to try amateur photog- 
raphy, but prefer trying tin typing first, as the process is more 
simple and easier to understand. 

I have read the articles on photography in St. Nicholas and 
other magazines, but they say nothing about tintyping, and the 
catalogue of prices I sent for did not mention such a thing as a tin- 
type camera. 

Now, dear St. Nicholas, can you enlighten me on the subject? 
I should like to know where I can get an apparatus for taking tin- 
types, how much it is likely to cost, whether the baths can be 
obtained ready mixed, and if directions for taking the pictures come 
with the camera. Yours respectfully, H. W. T . 

The apparatus required for making tintypes, or ferrotypes, need 
be little different from the apparatus required for making dry-plate 
photographs, and may be procured through any dealer in photo- 
graphic materials. If "H. W. T." wishes to make ferrotypes by 
the old method, common until within a few years, he will require a 
special plate-holder; but any camera will answer. This process is 
rather " mussy " for an amateur working at home, and the silver 
from the silver bath is certain to blacken the fingers in an annoying 
manner. The plate of japanned iron (for it is not tin, but the iron 
from which sheet tin is made) must be flowed with collodion, which is 
sold in bottles, ready for use. When the collodion has set, or dried, to 
a certain degree — which occurs very shortly after flowing — the plate 
is immersed in a silver bath which has been rendered slightly acid. 
The exposure must be made while the plate is wet, yet not too soon 
after the immersion. After the exposure has been made, the plate is 

llowed with a developing solution, the main ingredient of which is sul- 
phate of iron ; when, if the exposure has been correctly made, the 
image will gradually appear. At the moment when the image has 
reached a proper degree of clearness, the development is " checked " 
by placing the plate under the water-tap. The plate is then to be 
"fixed" with cyanide of potassium, after which it may at once be 
dried and varnished. 

Ferrotype plates are, however, now to be had ready prepared, 
like glass dry-plates for negatives. This does away with the col- 
lodion and the silver bath, and renders the hurry, and the nearness to 
the dark-room unnecessary. The Argentic Dry Plates may be had 
from the Phcenix Plate Company of Worcester, Mass., together 
with instructions for developing. Ihese plates work quicker than the 
" wet " plates, and are developed with a " pyro " developer. They 
can be used in an ordinary plate-holder with a piece of glass of the 
same size behind them; so that "H. W. T." may begin his "tin- 
typing" with any photographic camera outfit. 

Alexander R. Black. 

Di'NDALK, Ireland. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little girl twelve years old ; I have 
never written to you before. I used to live in America, and now I 
live in Ireland. I do not think it is so nice as it is in America, but 
there arc pretty mountains here. They are called the Carlingford 
Hills, and are right across Dundalk bay. The little houses are very 
funny ; they are thatched, and very small and dark. There is a market 
every Monday, and the town is crowded with country people. They 
come in with their pigs and cattle, and send them away lo Liverpool 
in a boat. Father sends the St. Nicholas every month to us, and 
we like it because there is not such a nice book over here. There arc 
five of us altogether, and we all look forward to the St. Nicholas 
coming. Nelly was only three when she came over and soon she 
will be four. There is a place called a cromlech near here ; it is three 
large stones standing on the ground about three or four yards apart, 
and one immense one on the top. They say these stones were placed 
thus by men to mark where the dead were buried, and those men 
lived long, long ago, before the Druids. There are other curious 
things around here, — an old grave-yard where William Bruce is 
buried, — (he was Robert Bruce's brother), — and there are also some 
old towers. 

Good-bye, dear St. Nicholas. Your little friend, 

Una Sti'art P . 

Tvlektown, Pike Co., Miss. 

Dear St. Nicholas; Although I have been a constant and 
devoted reader of -St. Nicholas ever since I have been a reader of 
anything, I think, I have never made so bold as to contribute to the 
Letter-box my " mite." Now that I have done so, I hope it will be 
regarded with a benignant "she hath done what she could," and 
allowed to pass the " dread waste-basket." 

St. Nicholas has been sent to our family by some dear cousins 
in Illinois, ever since it was first published. It has descended from 
one member of the family to the next younger until it has reached me. 
I do not think I shall ever outgrow it. 

I think I will be ranked among the older children. I have just 
passed my sixteenth birthday, but I am a "school-ma'am" with 
three months' experience. 

I read the Letter-box with the deepest interest, especially those 
letters from "far-away lands." I read books of travel and am very- 
fond of them, but I think that it would be more like seeing things 
myself to have them written of to me. 

Thanking you many times for what you have been to me, and 
with my best wishes for your future success, I remain. 

Yours devotedly, Annie S . 

Fontana Park, Geneva Lake, Wis. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I am very much interested in "Juan and 
Juanita." We camp here all the summer vacation. We have a very 
nice tent with three rooms in it. There are many other boys and 
girls in the camp. We have very nice times. My little brother and 
the other children and I go in bathing. I can swim a few strokes. 
We have a row-boat, and I go out on the lake very often. I have a 
baby mud-turtle, and It is just as cunning as it can be. He is a little 
larger than a silver half dollar. He has a pointed tail, and his head is 
yellow and black. He has very small eyes. I made him a nice 
home in a wooden pail. — This is a ver^' beautiful lake, nine miles 
long and three and a half miles wide. There are many parks around 
the lake. There are sixteen private steamers and four public ones. 
This used to be a great resort for Indians. Black Hawk used to 
have his council-house here. Some of the cedar pole is still in the 
ground where the council-house stood. There have been many In- 
dian arrow-heads picked up around here. I think the Indians must 
have felt very badly to have left their beautiful hunting-grounds. 

Bessie L. N . 




Dearest of Saints : I have taken you for four years for a Christ- 
mas present from mamma and papa, and I am not willing to give 
you up yet. IMamma thought 1 was gef.cing loo old for St. Nich- 
olas, and would enjoy an older magazine better; but nothing could 
induce me to give you up. I like all of your stories, especially those 
written by Frank Stockton ; but " Historic Boys and Girls," and the 
articles that have a bit of history or tra\'els in them, are my favorites. 

A few summers ago 1 spent a few weeks at Barnegat, N. J., 
which is famous for its lighthouse. It is indeed wonderful; and 
its light is so large that it can be seen for many miles around. At 
the base the wall is four feet thick, but gradually grows thinner as 
you ascend. l_belie\'e there are two hundred and seventy-four wind- 
ing steps, and when you get to the top you are indeed ready to sit 
down : but it is still harder to go down. While I was there it was a 
very warm day, but a heavy gale came up and shook the top so that 
it swayed, and I was very glad to go down. After visiting the light, 
we went out in a small yacht to see the steamer Guadaloupe, which 
had been wrecked the previous winter. On the way our skipper told 
us the story of the wreck, for he helped save the lives of the people. 

I am fourteen years old, and papa calls me Brownie for a pet name. 
{I wonder if any of Palmer Cox's brownies ever reach that age.) 
Your fascinated reader, Grace or " Brownie." 

Olr thanks are due to the young friends named below, for pleas- 
ant letters which we ha\e not space to print: 

James Fay, Willie L. Ta\er, Louise Clawsun, Claire Herrick, 
Eunice Stivers, Peggy and Kitty, M. G. H,, Lulu Gulliver, Ethel 
Crocker, Kale H. R., Cornelia I\I. T., Winifred Reed, Fennimore 
R., Jack Wilson. Ella i\I. Fischer, Daisy V. W., Marion Clothier, 
Susie Inlues, Lucy M. D., Alma St. C. S., Grace S., Mina L., 
L- S. C, M. A. andM. 0. P., Annie and Kathleen, Frederick W., 
Annie AI., Margaret Dabney, Bessie and Hettie R., Alston Deas, 
Ida, Hulda and Kheta. Bertha E. W., Haitie Rose, Wenefride and 
Rosalie Kelly, Burt Harrison, Mary L. C., Rose and Daisy, Elsie 
Wilson. Marcia Lee, Flossy B., Frances D. L.,M. O. W., A. CM., 
Blanche C. Rene Carrillo, Daisy McDowell, Lyda ^I., Helene 
M. K.. Helen R. B., "Gray Eyes and Blue Eyes," Lizzie Willey, 
Mamie S. B.. Abba Kellogg, Louise F. H., Sybil B., Maud O., 
Florence L. B., Josic S., Edna L. Er\vin, John WaiTen, Emma G., 
Mac. Douglas, Leon A. P., Alta V., Robert L. N., Edith C. and 
Ada B., I\y, Ruth and Hallie^ H., Lolo K., Lily G., A. L. R., 
Ada A. H., Bertha and Elsie, Claire and Lavinia. Louise R., Stella 
Wood. R. Marion Cameron, Bertha L. S., Eleanor B. E., Hugh 
Barr, Annie Graves, Michael and Frank, Avis M. M., Queen G., 
Delia H.. Minnie F., Alva E. P., Julia C. G., Annette A. G., 
" The Bookworm," M. W., M. A. W., and Julia B. H. 



])2}> eAb"^^Xmn^f=^~-~- 



Numerical Enigma. *' Every man is ihe architect of his own 

Cube. From i to 2, quintette ; 2 to ^, earthling ; 3 to 4, Easter- 
egg : I to 3, quadruple ; 5 to 6, rearguard ; 6 to 8, dictation ; 7 to f ' 

Octagons. I. i. Sad. 2. Strip, 
Diptera. 6. Petre. 7. Sea. II. 1 
cal. 4. Imitate. 5. Decades. 6, 

Greek Cross. I. i. Scans, 

elocution : 

I to 5, quaver ; 2 to 6, erased ; 4 to 8, 

gammon ; 

5 to 7, reanimate ; 
3 to 7, enable. 
Gone hath the Spring, with all its flowers, 

And gone the Summer's pomp and show, 
And Autumn, in his leafless bowers, 
Is waiting for the Winter's snow. 

AnhDHii Tho7ights, by J. G. WhiLtier. 
Novel Acrostics. Third row. Heartfelt thanks : sixth row, 
Thanksgiving Day. Cross-words; i. Athletic. 2. Wreathed. 3. 
Standard. 4. Strained. 5. Attacked. 6. Diffuses. 7. Presages. 8. 
Religion, g. Outlives. 10. Catering. 11. Schooner. 12. Ana- 
logue. 13. Consider. 14. Inkstand. 15. Unstayed. 

A Letter Pi^zzle. "Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel 
just." K hi g Henry I'l. Part 11. Aci^. SlC?ic -z. 

3. Stripes. 4. Ariette. 5. 
Did. 2. Homer. 3, Domj- 
Rates. 7. Les(sen). 
2. Carol. 3. Arise. 4. Nosle. 

el. " • 

5. Sleep. II. I. Press. 2. Ravel. 3. Evade. 4. Sedge. 5, 
Sleep. III. I. Sleep. 2. Larva. 3. Ernes. 4. Event. 5. Pasty, 
IV. I. Pasty. 2. Afire. 3. Sires. 4. Treat. 5 Ycsty. V. i 
Pasty. 2. Adore. 3. Solar. 4. Train. 5. Verns. 

Word-square, i. Katie. 2. Abhor. 3. Thane. 4. Ionic. 5 

A Classical Square. From i to 2, Argiva ; 2 to 4, Albula; ] 
to 3, Apulia ; 3 to 4, Athena ; i to 4 ; Atossa ; 2 to 3, Attica. 

Double Acrostic. Primals, Richard; finals, Blondel. 
words: i. RoB (Roy). 2. IdoL. 3. ComO. 4. HeleN. 
freD. 6. RhymE. 7. DulL. 

Hour-glass. Central letters, Lilliputian. Cross-words: i. Cis- 
atlantic. 2. Stability. 3. Phyllis. 4. Valid. 5. Big. 6. P. 7. 

5. Al- 

Dun. 8. Mitre. 



10. Imitation. 11. Nationality. 

To OUR Puzzlers: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, and 
should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-bo.v," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New-York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the September Number were received, before September 15th, from K. G. S.— Grace Kupfer — 
Maud E. Palmer — Katie. Jamie, and Mamma — Nellie and Reggie — " Blithedale " — " Kanuck and Yank" — " Hikeydum " — Maggie 
T. Turrill — Sadie Mabelle Sherman — Francis W. Islip. 

Answers to Puzzles in the September Number were received, before September 15th, from K. P. Ward, i — Alice Hirsch, 4 — 
" I. Diot," 2 — " Rufa " and " Brownie," 4 — Bertha, i — S. C. P., i — F, F. \V., i — " Kitty Clover," 3 — " Cricket," i — " The Three 
Graces," i — Edward E. Jungerich," i — J. A., 10 — " Puss," 2 — " Calamity Jane and Cliptknockky," 3 — Grace and Bertha, i — Ade- 
line and Agnes, 3 — Bacon and Tarr, i — Bertie Brush, i — "St. Olaf s Kirk," 10 — " Skipper," i — " Sphinx," i — Hattie Taylor and 
Mary Dexter, i — " A Yachting Party," 5 — " Giddy Sinclair," 4 — " Dombey and Son," 3 — " Rose," 3 — " Annie L. A.'s Admirer," 4 — 
H. H. C, 2 — B. and M. Di.von, i —Nellie B. McCarter, i — Anastatia, Celestine, and Marie Kane, 4— M. Angela Diller, 2 — Mary M. 
Rittnch, I — D, D. and M. M., 4 — No Name, Gardner, 7 — Sadie and Bessie Rhodes, 6 — Annie M. and Susie R. Bingham, 2 — *' Martin 
Chuzzlewit," 2 — Grace Scoville, i — A. and M. Fries, 10 — Elsie A. Patchen, i — Rudolph G. Ward, i — M. Flurscheim, i — Paul 
Reese, 13 — Papa and Mary Fa rr, 3 — May W. Elmslie, i — Peace and Happiness, 10 — L. M., i — Marion Strong, i — Midge, i — 
" Mooney," 8 — Shumway Hen and Chickens, 13 — "The Oaks," i — Florence L. Beeckman, 2 — "Tommy Traddles," 2 — Louise F. 
H., I — " Three Graces," Newark, 3 — " Pokey." 8 — Edith Woodward, 6 — N. L. Howes, 10 — " Jo and I," 12 — Effie K. Talboys, 8 — 
Alpha Alpha, B. C. , 8 — W. K, C. , 2 — Lou and Bert, 4 — Mona and Eima, 4 — Jennie S. Liebmann, 8 — A. H. R. and M. G. R. , 13 — 
Margaret C. Maule, i — Polly, 1 — Buttercup and Daisy, 2 — " We Two," 7 — Jennie, 7 — " Aliena," 6 — W. R. M., 12 — "?," 7 — May 
Shaughnessy, i — " Juan and Juanita," 5 — Annie Floyd, 7 — "Beth and Amy," 6 — Laura, 10 — "No Name, Newport, 6 — "Emerald 
Green." 4 — " Solomon Quill," 10 — " Fanatic," 11 — " May and 79," 5 — " Teddy," i — " Fox and Geese," 9 — " Junket," 4 — R. A. M., 
II — Kate L. Oglebay, i — " Idle Bee," i — E. Muriel Grundy, 13. 

This puzzle is based upon one of the Mother Goose rhymes. The 
pictures represent the last word nf the six lines of the verse. What 
IS the verse "> 


Across : In Diogenes. 2. To perform. 3. A name of the daugh- 
ter of Proserpina. 4. Consumed. 5. In Diogenes. 

Downward: i. In Diogenes. 2. Another name for Colchis. 3. 
An ancient people of Scotland. 4. To knot. 5. In Diogenes. 


In ga/nc so jolly ; 

In bunch of holly ; 

In sprig of green ; 
In IV atcr c\^2.v\ ; 
\xi/ac€s bright : 
In darkest night ; 

In sleigh so fine ; 
Injig/ire nine ; 

In boot and shoe ; 
In zebra too. 

What am I ? You surely will remember 
A famous battle fought in bleak December. 


I. Each of the cross-words contains seven letters. The primals 
and finals each name a festal time which occurs in December. 

Cross-words: i. A mean, despicable person. 2. A character 
in Shakspere's play of " Hamlet." 3. A historian. 4. To infuse 
into. 5. The title of the chief magistrate of Mecca. 6. A fine 
smooth stuff of silk. 7. A plant now used in the manufacture of sap- 
sago cheese. 8. Agony, g. To shut out. 10. One who nettles. 11. 
Twists, 12. Coveted. 13. An invocation of blessings. 14. A 
dramatic poem having a fatal issue. 

II. Each of the cross-words contains ten letters. The primals 
name articles pleasant to give or to receive ; the finals name a pleas- 
ant song to listen to. 

Cross-words: 1. Pertaining to the cabala. 2. The picture-writ- 
ing of the ancient Egyptian priests. 3. A combat. 4. A name 
given to persons in the early church who had received baptism. 5. 
Whippings. 6. Equivalent in value or signification. 7. A narra- 
tion of mere fable. 8. A city in Egypt. 9. Insensibility. 10. Geo- 
logical. II. A class of plants. 12. One who constructs or makes. 
13. A place in Bolivia. 14. Pertaining to a seraph. F. s. K. 




The numbers on ball number i rep- 
resent certain letters which form a boy's 
ninic number 2, to use with effort; num- 
btr 3 one given in pledge as security for 
the performance of certain conditions ; num- 
ber 4, a relative: number 5, the circum- 
ference of anything; number 6, obsequious; 
number 7, interlaced ; number 8, an exploit ; 
number 9, a morsel ; number 10, to wander, 
Tht, answer, consisting of fifty-one letters, 
I whit the Rabbi Jechiel says all should do. 


Uredmece clesos no eth ceens 

Dan hwta prapea het mothsn noge stap ? 
bt-igmerfn fo meU wichh cone heav bene ! 

Uesucingce lowlys, Ifed oto fats ! 
Thire mienuts, shour, dan sayd pareap 

Li\ewess ni hatt malls tinop, a ryca. 


3. To stuff. 4, A Scriptural name. 5. An evil spirit. 6. A meas- 
ure of length. 7. A bank to confine water. S. A negative answer. 
9. In accent. 

Upward: 1. In accent. 2. In this manner. 
culine. 5. Existed. 6. A Scriptural name, 
ward. 9. In accent. 


3. A bird. 4. Mas- 
Enraged. 8. For- 


I Efficacioi-s. 2. 
puun 4. Imaginary. 

Apart. 3. To lam- 
5. Ravines. 


I HE central letters, reading downward, 
spell the name of the rider of Pegasus. 

Lross-words; i. Pertaining to a very 
northern region. 2, The brother of Mene- 
laus 3. The most celebrated of Grecian 
painters. 4. One of the Harpies. 5. A 
name for Colchis. 6. In Harpy. 7- A per- 
sonification of night. 8. The father of 
Anchises, g. The husband of Niobe. 10. 
Pertaining to an Amazon. 11. A name for 
Polydorus. "little one." 


From 1 to 2, a President of the United States; from 2 to 4, leav- 
ing ; from i to 3, a Roman emperor whose real name was Bassianus ; 
from 3 to 4, affirming positively ; from 5 to 6, the act of painting or 
drawing the likeness of; from 6 to 8, generously ; from 5 to 7, father- 
hood ; from 7 to 8, what Shakspere tells us King Richard II. 
wished to call back ; from i to 5, to move slowly ; from 2 to 6, com- 
ical ; from 3 to 7, to quiet ; from 4 to 8, fame. 



Across : i. Depressed with fear. 2. A 
city in Massachusetts. 3. A masculine 
mme 4. A city in Italy. 5. A fruit. 

DnwNW.ARD : r. In accent. 2. A bone. 

Each of the a 



■ ^,, Olvftr^Diit 

From i to 2, to distinguish ; from 1 to 3, traced ; trom 2 to 3, 
knotted ; from 4 to 5, longed for ; from 4 to 6, feared ; from 5 to 6, 
addicted. John pebrvbingle. 


ords described contains the same number of letters. 
When these are rightly guessed and placed 
one below another, in the order here given, 
the central row of letters will spell the 
name of a party which took place on the 
i6th of a certain L'ecember, to which no 
reader of St. Nicholas was invited. 

J. A wooden shoe worn by peasants. 
2. A declivity. 3. A wild animal. 4.^ A 
pretty fabric. 5. A color. 6. A musical 
instrument. 7. Measure. 8. A hard out- 
side covering. 9. To invent. 10. More 
mature. 11. A series of things linked to- 
gether. 12. Pale. 13. Complete. 14. 
Slagnificent. '* LOU c. lee." 



(SEE i'AGE l66.) 


Vol. XV. 

JANUARY, 1888. 

No. 3. 


By John Greenleaf Whittier 

■ 1111/11 K niiriiiii""""""" 


[The hint of this ballad is found in Amdt's Mdrchett, Berlin, 
1816. My young readers, while smiling at the absurd superstition, 
will do well to remember that bad companionship and evil habits, 
desires, and passions are more to be dreaded now than the Elves and 
Trolls who frightened the children of past ages. 

The pleasant isle of Riigen looks the Baltic water o'ei'- 
To the silver-sanded beaches of the Pomeranian shore; 

And in the town of Rambin a little boy and maid 

Plucked the meadow-flowers together and in the sea-surf played. 

Alike were they iu beauty if not in their degree : 

He was the Amptman's* fli'st-born, the miller's child was she. 

Now of old the isle of Riigen was full of Dwarfs and Trolls, 
The brown-faced little Earth-men, the people without souls ; 

And, for every man and woman in Riigen's island found 
Walking in air and sunshine, a Troll was under-ground. 

It chanced the little maiden, one morning, strolled away 
Among the haunted Nine Hills, where the elves and goblins 

That day, in barley-fields below, the harvesters had known 
Of evil voices in the air, and heard the small horns blown. 

* A German local official, or bailiff. 
[Copyright, 1887, by The Century Co. All rights reserved.] 






She came not back ; the search for her in field and 

wood was vain: 
They cried her east, they cried her west, but she 

came not again. 

l-^' " She 's down among the Brown Dwai-fs," said the 
dream-wives wise and old. 
And prayers were made, and masses said, and Rambin's 
church bell tolled. 

Five years her father mourned her ; and then John Deitrich 
said : 
' I will find my little plajrmate, be she alive or dead." 

He watched among the Nine HUls, he heard the 
Brown Dwarfs sing. 
And saw them dance by moonlight merrily in a ring. 

Oy _<Lr-JsT'; ^i^^ when their gay-robed leader tossed up his 

"^i^ cap of red, 

Young Deitrich caught it as it fell — and thrust 
it on his head. 

The Troll came crouching at his feet and wept 
for lack of it. 
^^^1 "Oh, give me back my magic cap, for your great head 

^f'U unfit!" 

ifit- " Nay," Deitrich said ; " the Dwarf who throws his charmed 
cap away, 
Must serve its finder at his will, and for his folly pay. 

You stole my pretty Lisbeth, and hid her in the earth ; 
And you shall ope the door of glass and let me lead her 

" She wiU not come ; she 's one of us ; she 's mine ! " the Brown Dwarf said ; 
" The day is set, the cake is baked, to-moi-row we shall wed." 

'• The fell fiend fetch thee ! " Deitrich cried, " and keep thy foul tongue stUl. 
Quick ! open, to thj'' evil world, the glass door of the hill ! '' 

The Dwarf obeyed; and youth and Troll down the long stair- way passed, 
And saw in dim and sunless light a country strange aiul vast. 

"Weird, rich, and wonderful, he saw the elfin uuder-land, — 
Its palaces of precious stones, its streets of golden sand. 

He came unto a banquet-haU with tables richly spread. 

Where a young maiden served to him the red wine and the bread. 

How fair she seemed among the Trolls so ugly and so wild ! 
Yet pale and very sorrowful, like one who never smiled ! 



Her low, sweet voice, her gold-brown 
hair, her tender blue eyes seemed 

Like something he had seen elsewhere 
or something he had dreamed. r-S., 

•7^. ^ 

He looked; he clasped her in his arms; 

he knew the long-lost one : i»(, 7^^" 

"O Lisbeth! See thy playmate — I am the iTr 

Amptman's son!" '^ j^^^'^'? /(* 

She leaned her fair head on his breast, and ' 

through her sobs she spoke: ^^r ill^ 
" Oh, take me from this evil place, and fi'om ^ ' (fJi 

the elfin folk ! '<l(i, ''# 

" And let me tread the grass-green fields and ''i^ 
smell the flowers again, 1*^ 

And feel the soft wind on my cheek and hear (X / ^ 

the dropping rain ! 1 ,\ 

- )\ ^i} 

" And oh, to hear the singing bird, the rustling V,' ' 

of the tree, ^ '^'^(iillim 

The lowing cows, the bleat of sheep, the voices of ') *Hj tlftl 
the sea ; 

" And oh, upon my father's knee to sit beside the door, 
And hear the bell of vespers ring in Rambin church once more ' " 

He kissed her cheek, he kissed her lips ; the Brown Dwarf 

groaned to see. 
And tore his tangled hair and ground his long teeth angrily. ^ ^ 



But Deitricli said : " For five long years this tender Christian maid 
Has served you in your evil world and well must she be paid ! 

"Haste! — hither bring me precious gems, the richest in your store; 
Then when we pass the gate of glass, you '11 take your cap once more." 

No choice was left the baffled Ti-oU, and, miu'muriug, he obeyed, 
And filled the pockets of the youth and aj^rou of the maid. 

They left the dreadful under-land and passed the gate of glass ; 
They felt the sunshine's warm caress, they trod the soft, green grass. 

And when, beneath, they saw the Dwarf stretch up to them his brown 
And crooked claw-like fingers, they tossed his red cap down. 


Oh, never shone so bright a sun, was never sky so blue, 

As hand in hand they homeward walked the pleasant meadows through ! 

And never sang the birds so sweet in Rambin's woods before, 
And never washed the waves so soft along the Baltic shore ; 

And when beneath his door-yard trees the father met his child. 
The bells rung out their merriest peal, the folks with joy ran wild. 

And soon from Rambin's holy church the twain came forth as one, 
The Amptman kissed a daughter, the miUer blest a son. 

John Deitrich's fame went far and wide, and nurse and maid crooned o'er 
Their cradle song: "Sleep on^ sleep well the Trolls shall come no more!" 



E^..^ -i,J]/l 


4 ^, 





I J 


/^:^v yj.' 

For in tlie haunted Nine '^-^ 
Hills he set a cross of 

stone ; "■'^s 

Ail Elf and Brown Dwarf sought in vain a door 

where door was none. 

3 fV^ 

//tT-^ ^^^i?-'^ «. 


. <-' 1 --' 

The tower he bt;ilt in Rambin, fair Riigen's pride and 

Looked o'er the Baltic water to the Pomeranian coaht; 

And, for his worth ennobled, and rich beyond compare, 
Count Deitrich and his lovely bride dwelt long 

■^- /iti 


and happy there. 

<m.^s^r f^; 





hy fPisinig@s JraL©e3j;s©Fi BTyfPB®"? 

Part II. 

That very afternoon Sara had an opportunity 
of proving to herself whether she was really a 
princess or not. It was a dreadful afternoon. 
For several days it had rained continuously, the 
streets were chilly and sloppy ; there was mud 
everywhere — sticky London mud — and over 
everything a pall of fog and drizzle. Of course 
there were several long and tiresome errands to be 
done, — there always were on days like this, — and 
Sara was sent out again and again, until her 
shabby clothes were damp through. The absurd 
old feathers on her forlorn hat were more drag- 
gled and absurd than ever, and her down-trodden 
shoes were so wet they could not hold any more 
water. Added to this, she had been deprived of 
her dinner, because Miss Minchin wished to pun- 
ish her. She was very hungry. She was so cold 
and hungry and tired that her little face had 

a pinched look, and now and then some kind- 
hearted person passing her in the crowded street 
glanced at her with sympathy. But she did not 
know that. She hurried on, trying to comfort her- 
self in that queer way of hers by pretending and 
"supposing," — but really this time it was harder 
than she had ever found it, and once or twice she 
thought it almost made her more cold and hungry 
instead of less so. But she persevered obstinately. 
" Suppose I had dry clothes on," she thought. 
" Suppose I had good shoes and a long thick 
coat and merino stockings and a whole umbrella. 
And suppose — suppose, just when I was near a 
baker's where they sold hot buns, I should find 
sixpence — which belonged to nobody. Suppose, 
if I did, I should go into the shop and buy six of 
the hottest buns and should cat them all without 

Some very odd things happen in this world 
sometimes. It certainly was an odd thing which 



happened to Sara. She had to cross the street just 
as she was saying this to herself — the mud was 
dreadful — she almost had to wade. She picked 
her way as carefully as she could, but she could 
not save herself much ; only, in picking her way she 
had to look down at her feet and the mud, and in 
looking down — just as she reached the pavement 

— she saw something shin- 
ing in the gutter. A piece 
of silver — a tiny piece trod- 
den upon by many feet, but 
still with spirit enough left to 
shine a little. Not quite a 
sixpence, but the next thing 
to it — a four-penny piece! 
In one second it was in her 
cold, little, red and blue hand. 

"Oh! " she gasped. "It 
is true! " 

And then, if you will be- 
lieve me, she looked straight 
before her at the shop direct- 
ly facing her. And it was 
a baker's, and a cheerful, 
stout, motherly woman, with 
rosy cheeks, was just put- 
ting into the window a tray 
of delicious hot buns, — large, 
plump, shiny buns, with cur- 
rants in them. 

It almost made Sara feel 
faint for a few seconds — the 
shock and the sight of the 
buns and the delightful odors 
of warm bread floating up 
through the baker's cellar- 

She knew that she need 
not hesitate to use the little 
piece of money. It had evi- 
dently been lying in the mud 
for some time, and its owner 
was completely lost in the 
streams of passing people 
who crowded and jostled 
each other all through the 

"But I '11 go and ask the 
baker's woman if she has lost 
a piece of money," she said 
to herself, rather faintly. 

So she crossed the pavement and put her wet 
foot on the step of the shop ; and as she did so she 
saw something which made her stop. 

It was a little figure more forlorn than her own 

— a little figure which was not much more than a 
bundle of rags, from which small, bare, red and 

muddy feet peeped out — only because the rags 
with which the wearer was trying to cover them 
were not long enough. Above the rags appeared 
a shock head of tangled hair and a dirty face, with 
big, hollow, hungry eyes. 

Sara knew they were hungry eyes the moment 
she saw them, and she felt a sudden sympathy. 


"This," she said to herself, with a little sigh, 
" is one of the Populace — and she is hungrier than 
I am." 

The child — this "one of the Populace " — stared 
up at Sara, and shuffled herself aside a little, so as 
to give her more room. She was used to being 

I 70 



made to give room to everybody. She knew that 
if a policeman chanced to see her, he would tell 
her to " move on." 

Sara clutched her little four-penny piece, and 
hesitated a feu- seconds. Then she spoke to her. 

" Are you hungry ? " she asked. 

The child shuffled herself and her rags a little 

"Ain't I jist!" she said", in a hoarse voice. " Jist 
ain't I ! " 

" Have n't you had any dinner? " said Sara. 

" No dinner," more hoarsely still and with more 
shuffling, "nor yet no bre'fast — nor yet no sup- 
per — nor nothin'. " 

" Since when ? " asked Sara. 

" Dun'no'. Never got nothin' to-day — nowhere. 
I 've axed and axed." 

Just to look at her made Sara more hungry and 
faint. But those queer little thoughts were at 
work in her brain, and she was talking to herself 
though she was sick at heart. 

" If I 'm a princess," she was saying — " if 1 'm 

a princess ! When they were poor and driven 

from their thrones — they always shared — with the 
Populace — if they met one poorer and hungrier. 
They always shared. Buns are a penny each. If 
it had been sixpence! I could have eaten six. It 
won't be enough for either of us — but it will be 
better than nothing." 

" Wait a minute," she said to the beggar-child. 
She went into the shop. It was warm and smelled 
delightfully. The woman was just going to put 
more hot buns in the window. 

"If you please," said Sara, "have you lost 
fourpence — a silver fourpence ? " And she held 
the forlorn little piece of money out to her. 

The woman looked at it and at her — at her in- 
tense little face and draggled, once-fine clothes. 

"Bless us — no," she answered. "Did you 
find it?" 

" In the gutter," said Sara. 

"Keep it, then," said the woman. "It may 
have been there a week, and goodness knows who 
lost it. I'oii could never find out." 

" I know that," said Sara, " but I thought I 'd 
ask you." 

" Not many would," said the woman, looking 
puzzled and interested and good-natured all at 
once. "Do you want to buy something?" she 
added, as she saw Sara glance toward the buns. 

" Four buns, if you please," said Sara; " those 
at a penny each." 

The woman went to the window and put some 
in a paper bag. Sara noticed that she put in six. 

" I said four, if you please," she explained. 
" I have only the fourpence." 

" I '11 throw in two for make-weight," said the 

woman, with her good-natured look. " I dare say 
you can eat them some time. Are n't you hungry ?" 

A mist rose before Sara's eyes. 

" Yes," she answered. " I am very hungry, and 
I am much obliged to you for your kindness, and," 
she was going to add, "there is a child outside 
who is hungrier than I am." But just at that mo- 
ment two or three customers came in at once and 
each one seemed in a hurry, so she could only 
thank the woman again and go out. 

The child was still huddled up on the corner of 
the steps. She looked frightful in her wet and 
dirty rags. She was staring with a stupid look of 
suffering straight before her, and Sara saw her 
suddenly draw the back of her roughened, black 
hand across her eyes to rub away the tears which 
seemed to have surprised her by forcing their way 
from under her lids. She was muttering to herself 

Sara opened the paper bag and took out one of 
the hot buns, which had already warmed her cold 
hands a little. 

" See, " she said, putting the bun on the ragged 
lap, " that is nice and hot, Eat it, and you will 
not be so hungry." 

The child started and stared up at her; then 
she snatched up the bun and began to cram it 
into her mouth with great wolfish bites. 

"Oh, my! Oh, my!" Sara heard her say 
hoarsely, in wild delight. 

"O//, myj" 

Sara took out three more buns and put them 

" She is hungrier than I am," she said to herself. 
" She 's starving." But her hand trembled when 
she put down the fourth bun. " I 'm not starving," 
she said — and she put down the fifth. 

The little starving London savage was still 
snatching and devouring when she turned away. 
She was too ravenous to give any thanks, even if 
she had been taught politeness — which she had 
not. She was only a poor little wild animal. 

"Good-bye," said Sara. 

When she reached the other side of the street 
she looked back. The child had a bun in both 
hands, and had stopped in the middle of a bite to 
watch her. Sara gave her a little nod, and the 
child, after another stare, — a curious, longing 
stare, — jerked her shaggy head in response, and 
until Sara was out of sight she did not take an- 
other bite or even finish the one she had begun. 

At that moment the baker-woman glanced out 
of her shop- window. 

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "If that 
young 'un has n't given her buns to a beggar- 
child. " It was n't because she did n't want them, 
either — well, well, she looked hungry enough. 
I 'd give something to know what she did it for." 




She stood behind her window for a few moments 
and pondered. Then her curiosity got the better 
of her. She went to the door and spoke to the 

" Who gave you tliose buns ? " slie asked her. 

The child nodded her head toward Sara's van- 
ishing figure. 

" What did she say ? " inquired the woman. 

" Axed me if I was 'ungry," replied the hoarse 

"What did you say?" 

" Said I was jist ! " 

" And then she came in and got buns and came 
out and gave them to you, did she ? " 

The child nodded. 

" How many ? " 


The woman thought it over. " Left just one for 
herself," she said, in alow voice. " And she could 
have eaten the whole six — 1 saw it in her eyes." 

She looked after the little, draggled, far-away 
figure, and felt more disturbed in her usually com- 
fortable mind than she had felt for many a day. 

"I wish she had n't gone so quick," she said. 
" I 'm blest if she should n't have had a dozen." 

Then she turned to the child. 

" Are you hungry, yet ? " she asked. 

"I'm alius 'ungry," was the answer; "but 
't ain't so bad as it was." 

"Come in here," said the woman, and she held 
open the shop-door. 

The child got up and shuffled in. To be invited 
into a warm place full of bread seemed an incred- 
ible thing. She did not know what was going to 
happen ; she did not care, even. 

" Get yourself warm," said the woman, pointing 
to a fire in a tiny back room. " And, look here, — 
when you 're hard up for a bit of bread, you can 
come here and ask for it. I 'm blest if I won't give 
it you for that young 'un's sake." 

Sara found some comfort in her remaining bun. 
It was hot; and it was a great deal better than 
nothing. She broke off small pieces and ate them 
slowly to make it last longer. 

" Suppose it was a magic bun," she said, " and a 
bite was as much as a whole dinner. 1 should be 
over-eating myself if I went on like this." 

It was dark when she reached the square in 
which Miss Minchin's Select Seminary was situ- 
ated ; the lamps were lighted, and in most of the 
windows gleams of light were to be seen. It always 
interested Sara to catch glimpses of the rooms 
before the shutters were closed. She liked to im- 
agine things about the people who sat before the 
fires in the houses, or who bent over books at the 
tables. There was, for instance, the Large Family 

opposite. She called these people the Large Fam- 
ily — not because they were large, for indeed most 
of them were little, but because there were so many 
of them. There were eight children in the Large 
Family, and a stout rosy mother, and a stout rosy 
father, and a stout rosy grandmamma, and any num- 
ber of servants. The eight children were always 
either being taken out to walk, or to ride in peram- 
bulators, by comfortable nurses ; or they were going 
to drive with their mamma; or they were flying 
to t\ie door in the evening to kiss their papa and 
dance around him and drag oft' his overcoat and 
look for packages in the pockets of it ; or they were 
crowding about the nursery windows and looking 
out and pushing each other and laughing, — in fact, 
they were always doing something which seemed 
enjoyable and suited to the tastes of a large fam- 
ily. Sara was quite attached to them and had 
given them all names out of books. She called 
them the Montmorencys, when she did not call 
them the Large Family. The fat, fair baby with 
the lace cap was Ethelberta Beauchamp Montmor- 
ency ; the next baby was Violet Cholmondely 
Montmorency; the little boy who could just stag- 
ger, and who had such round legs, was Sydney 
Cecil Vivian Montmorency; and then came Lilian 
Evangeline, Guy Clarence, Maud Marian, Rosa- 
lind Gladys, Veronica Eustacia, and Claude Harold 

Next door to the Large Family Hved the Maiden 
Lady, who had a companion, and two parrots, and 
a King Charles spaniel ; but Sara was not so 
very fond of her, because she did nothing in par- 
ticular but talk to the parrots and drive out with 
the spaniel. The most interesting person of all 
lived next door to Mrs. Minchin herself. Sara 
called him the Indian Gentleman. He was an 
elderly gentleman who was said to have lived in 
the East Indies, and to be immensely rich and to 
have something the matter with his liver, — in fact, 
it had been rumored that he had no liver at all, and 
was much inconvenienced by the fact. At any rate, 
he was very yellow and he did not look happy ; and 
when he went out to his carriage, he was almost 
always wrapped up in shawls and overcoats, as if 
he were cold. He had a native servant who looked 
even colder than himself, and he had a monkey 
who looked colder than the native servant. Sara 
had seen the monkey sitting on a table, in the sun, 
in the parlor-window, and he always wore such a 
mournful expression that she sympathized with him 

" I dare say," she used sometimes to remark 
to herself, "he is thinking all the time of cocoa-nut 
trees and of swinging by his tail under a tropical 
sun. He might have had a family dependent on 
him, too, poor thing ! " 



'he was waiting for his master to come out to the carriage, and SARA STOPPED AND SPOKE A FEW WORDS TO HIM. 

The native servant, whom she called the Las- could speak to the Lascar. I remember a little 

car, looked mournful too, but he was evidently Hindustani." 

very faithful to his master. And one day she actually did speak to him, and 

" Perhaps he saved his master's life in the Sepoy his start at the sound of his own language ex- 
rebellion," she thought. " They look as if they pressed a great deal of surprise and delight. He 
might have had all sorts of adventures. I wish I was waiting for his master to come out to the car- 




riage, and Sara, who was going on an errand as 
usual, stopped and spoke a few words. She had 
a special gift for languages and had remembered 
enough Hindustani to make herself understood 
by him. When his master came out, the Lascar 
spoke to him quickly, and the Indian Gentleman 
turned and looked at her curiously. And after- 
ward the Lascar always greeted her with salaams 
of the most profound description. And occasion- 
ally they exchanged a few words. She learned 
that it was true that the Sahib was very rich — 
that he was ill — and also that he had no wife 
nor children, and that England did not agree 
with the monkey. 

" He must be as lonely as I am," thought Sara. 
" Being rich does not seem to make him happy." 

That evening, as she passed the windows, the 
Lascar was closing the shutters, and she caught 
a glimpse of the room inside. There was a bright 
fire glowing in the grate, and the Indian Gentleman 
was sitting before it, in a luxurious chair. The 
room was richly furnished and looked delight- 
fully comfortable, but the Indian Gentleman sat 
with his head resting on his hand and looked as 
lonely and unhappy as ever. 

" Poor man ! " said Sara; " I wonder what _)'£>« 
are ' supposing ' ? " 

When she went into the house she met Miss 
Minchin in the hall. 

"Where have you wasted your time?" said 
Miss Minchin. " You have been out for hours ! " 

" It was so wet and muddy," Sara answered. 
" It was hard to walk, because my shoes were so 
bad and slipped about so." 

"Make no excuses," said Miss Minchin, "and 
tell no falsehoods." 

Sara went downstairs to the kitchen. 

" Why did n't you stay all night? " said the cook. 

" Here are the things," said Sara, and laid her 
purchases on the table. 

The cook looked over them, grumbling. She 
was in a very bad temper indeed. 

"May I have something to eat?" Sara asked, 
rather faintly. 

"Tea 's over and done with," was the answer. 
" Did you expect me to keep it hot for you ? " 

Sara was silent a second. 

" I had no dinner," she said, and her voice was 
quite low. She made it low, because she was 
afraid it would tremble. 

"There 's some bread in the pantry," said the 
cook. " That 's all you 'II get at this time of day." 

Sara went and found the bread. It was old and 
hard and dry. The cook was in too bad a humor 
to give her anything to eat with it. She had just 
been scolded by Miss Minchin, and it was always 
safe and easy to vent her own spite on Sara. 

Really it was hard for the child to climb the 
three long flights of stairs leading to her garret. 
She often found them long and steep when she 
was tired, but to-night it seemed as if she would 
never reach the top. Several times a lump rose in 
her throat, and she was obliged to stop to rest. 

"I can't pretend anything more to-night," she 
said wearily to herself "I 'm sure I can't. I '11 
eat my bread and drink some water and then go to 
sleep, and perhaps a dream will come and pretend 
for me. I wonder what dreams are." 

Yes, when she reached the top landing there 
were tears in her eyes, and she did not feel like a 
princess — only like a tired, hungry, lonely, lonely 

" If my papa had lived," she said, " they would 
not have treated me like this. If my papa had 
lived, he would have taken care of me." 

Then she turned the handle and opened the 

Can you imagine it — can you believe it ? I find 
it hard to believe it myself And Sara found it 
impossible ; for the first few moments she thought 
something strange had happened to her eyes — to 
her mind — that the dream had come before she 
had had time to fall asleep. 

"Oh!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "Oh! It 
is n't true ! I know, I know it is n't true ! " And 
she slipped into the room and closed the door and 
locked it, and stood with her back against it, star- 
ing straight before her. 

Do you wonder? In the grate, which had been 
empty and rusty and cold when she left it, but 
which now was blackened and polished up quite 
respectably, there was a glowing, blazing fire. On 
the hob was a little brass kettle, hissing and boil- 
ing; spread upon the floor was a warm, thick 
rug ; before the fire was a folding-chair, unfolded 
and with cushions on it ; by the chair was a small 
folding-table, unfolded, covered with a white cloth, 
and upon it were spread small covered dishes, a cup 
and saucer, and a tea-pot ; on the bed were new, 
warm coverings, a curious wadded silk robe and 
some books. The little, cold, miserable room 
seemed changed into Fairyland. It was actually 
warm and glowing. 

"It is bewitched!" said Sara. "Or / am 
bewitched. I only think I see it all ; but if 1 can 
only keep on thinking it, I don't care — I don't 
care, — if I can only keep it up ! " 

She was afraid to move, for fear it would melt 
away. She stood with her back against the door 
and looked and looked. But soon she began to 
feel warm, and then she moved forward. 

" A fire that I only thought I saw surely would n't 
feel warm," she said. " It feels real — real." 

She went to it and knelt before it. She 




touched the chair, the table ; she lifted the cover 
of one of the dishes. There was something hot 
and savory in it — something delicious. The tea- 
pot liad tea in it, ready for the boiling water from 
the little kettle ; one plate had toast on it, another, 

" It is real," said Sara. " The fire is real 
enough to warm me. 1 can sit in the chair ; the 
things are real enough to eat." 

It was like a fairy story come true — it was 
heavenly. She went to the bed and touched the 
blankets and the wrap. They were real too. She 
opened one book, and on the title-page was written 
in a strange hand, " The little girl in the attic." 

Suddenly — was it a strange thing for her to 
do ? — Sara put her face down on the queer foreign- 
looking quilted robe and burst into tears. 

"1 don't know who it is," she said, "but 
somebody cares about me a little — somebody is 
my friend." 

Somehow that thought warmed her more than 
the fire. She had never had a friend since those 
happy, luxurious days when she had had every- 
thing ; and those days had seemed such a long way 
off — so far away as to be only like dreams — dur- 
ing these last years at Miss Minchin's. 

She really cried more at this strange thought of 
having a friend — even though an unknown one — 
than she had cried over many of her worst troubles. 

But these tears seemed different from the others, 
for when she had wiped them away they did not 

(To h, 

seem to leave her eyes and her heart hot and 

And then imagine, if you can, what the rest of 
the evening was like. The delicious comfort of 
taking off the damp clothes and putting on the 
soft, warm, quilted robe before the glowing fire — 
of slipping her cold feet into the luscious little wool- 
lined slippers she found near her chair. And then 
the hot tea and savory dishes, the cushioned chair 
and the books ! 

It was just like Sara, that, once having found 
the things real, she should give herself up to the 
enjoyment of them to the very utmost. She had 
lived such a life of imaginings, and had found her 
pleasure so long in improbabilities, that she was 
quite equal to accepting any wonderful thing that 
happened. After she was quite warm and had 
eaten her supper and enjoyed herself for an hour or 
so, it had almost ceased to be surprising to her, 
that such magical surroundings should be hers. 
As to finding out who had done all this, she knew 
that it was out of the question. She did not know 
a human soul by whom it could seem in the least 
degree probable that it could have been done. 

"There is nobody," she said to herself, "no- 
body." She discussed the matter with Emily, it 
is true, but more because it was delightful to talk 
about it than with a view to making any dis- 

" But we have a friend, Emily," she said; " we 
have a friend." 



By Henry W. Jessup. 

If the little Arabs are heathen, they are at least 
picturesque heathen. In their colored clothing, 
with their dusky skins, their black eyes, and their 
lithe, active bodies, they are very picturesque. But, 
it must be confessed, they appear best at a distance ; 
for soap is not so fashionable among them as 
might justly be expected from the people of a 
country which manufactures the most cleansing 
soap in the world. In watching the children at 
play, one soon notices that the girls do not always 
have a good time. Arab boys are not trained to 
be gentlemanly and courteous to their sisters, 
although they treat their elders with a delightful 

deference and respect. Little girls in the East are 
never welcome. When a baby is born, if it be a 
girl "the threshold mourns forty days." So, in 
taking a glimpse at the amusements of the Arab 
children, we must be prepared to find that they 
are cliiefly boys' games, in which the girls seldom 

A little boy in America asked a person who had 
lived in Syria if the boys there ever played base- 
ball ; and on learning that they did not, he said, 
" Well, they can't have much fun there." It 
is very natural for the children of any country 
to imagine that the children in other countries 



amuse themselves in the same ways. And the 
number of games that are in reahty universal 
among children in all countries is really remark- 
able. For example, the Arab children often play 
blind-man's-buff (they call it ghuminaida) and 
biz sowaia or puss-in-the-corner, and a game like 
"button, button, who has the button?" (which 
they play with a pebble), and owal howah or leap- 
frog, and gilkh or marbles. But there are other 
games of which you probably have never heard — 
such as kurd miirboot, shooJia, joora, taia-ya-taia, 
khdtiin, and the greatest and most exciting of all 
their games — the national game, it might perhaps 
be called — jcrccd. I will briefly describe these dif- 
ferent games. 

One noticeable feature of all these games is that 
they cost nothing. The Arab boy rarely has any 
pocket-money, unless he finds it, or gets it as a 
gift; and when he has any, he is very certain to 
win or lose with it, if he can find any other boy 
who also has some. 

But in the ordinary games no money is spent. 
Every one is so poor, — the government is so 
grasping, and the taxes are so heavy, — that any 
boy who asked for money to buy something to play 
with would be likely to " sc/i/aie ruily^' — "'get a 
beating," as their saying goes, from his father's 
stick. Probably more than a quarter of the chil- 
dren in this bright land have as much money 
spent on their toys and amusements in one year 
as would feed and clothe as many Arab children 
for the same length of time. How happy some 
little Arab girl is occasionally made when any of 
the kind-hearted little American or English girls 
out there give her an old dolly for her own ! How- 
she cherishes and treasures it ! 

But now for the games. Kurd nttirboot means 
"tied monkey." One boy is chosen to be mon- 
key. He is tied by the hand with a long string 
to a peg driven in the ground. Then the others 
tie knots in their handkerchiefs, if they have any, 
or use little whips, and beat him with them, until 
he manages to catch one of the boys, who then 
must change places with him and be tied to the 
peg in turn. In all the games in which one is 
hit by the others, the young Arabs are remark- 
ably good-tempered; and fair play — turn and 
turn about — is the rule. When the Arab boy 
does lose his temper, he invariably lays hold 
of a stone ; and after cursing his antagonist's 
great-great-grandfather, he lets the missile fly. But 
they are not very good throwers, and so, as a rule, 
little damage is done. They are, however, very 
revengeful. One Moslem boy once had a spite 
against a little American boy in Beirut, and he 
climbed upon the wall of the American boy's garden 
and dropped a large stone upon his head. 

Shooha is very similar to kurd murboot, but 
instead of being lied to a peg, the boy hangs in 
a swing and tries to catch the olhers without leav- 
ing the swing. So he swoops around like a s/iooka. 
or hawk. Taia-ya-taia and khdtiin are not very 
popular and arc little played. The former is on the 
same principle as kurd iniirboot, the boy who is 
"it" hopping on one foot and trying thus to 
catch the rest. Khdtim is played with a ring, and 
is merely a sort of " toss-up " to determine who shall 
have the right to pound the others. 

"How brutal!" some reader exclaims; "all 
their games seem to be based upon hitting and 

Not all ; joora is a very popular game, and is 
played a great deal in the spring about the time 
marbles begin. It is played sometimes with mar- 
bles, but more often with apricot-stones. The 
Syrian apricots are of two varieties, — the lowsy, 
or nut almond, the stone of which contains a de- 
licious kernel, and a smaller variety, the kelayby, or 
"little dog" kind, which is very abundant and 
cheap, and the stones of which are about the size 
of an ordinary marble. 

Joora means almost the same as "hole in the 
ground." A hole about six inches deep and four 
inches across is scooped in the earth. Then the 
players stand about four or six feet away, and as 
each one's turn comes, he takes as many stones as 
he cares to venture and tries to throw them into 
the holeat one toss. His companion, who is not sup- 
posed to know how many he throws, calls out "odd " 
or " even," and if he calls correctly the number of 
those that do fall into the hole, he wins them ; if 
not, he gives the thrower as many as do go in. 

The children who can get the nut almond stones to 
play with are much envied ; for after the game, they 
can eat their winnings or make beautiful whistles 
out of them. To do this they wear a hole in one 
side by rubbing it swiftly on a stone, with a little 
water to moisten it and make it wear off" smoothly. 

The Arabs play marbles differently from the 
American boys. Of course the arrangement of the 
marbles to be shot at can be varied in many ways ; 
but the young Arabs shoot the marble in a wa}' 
of their own and much more accurately than 
American lads. The left hand is laid flat on the 
ground with the fingers closed together, and the 
marble is placed in the groove between the middle 
finger and forefinger. The forefinger of the right 
hand is then pressed firmly on the end joint of the - 
middle finger, and when the middle finger is 
suddenly pushed aside, the forefinger of the right 
hand slips out with more or less force and projects 
the marble very accurately in the direction of the 
groove on the left hand. Many of the boys become 
very expert. I knew one boy who was famous for 





shooting his marble into the air and making its 
range so exact that it would drop on the one he 
shot at ; and he could do this with remarkable 
accuracy. Perhaps marbles are almost the only 
playthings for which Arab children pay money — 
and as a rule only a very small capital is needed. 

We come now to the most interesting of the Arab 
games — jereed, or " spears." Although 1 have men- 
tioned it as perhaps the only national game, it is 
not, however, played somuchnorsoengrossingly as 
base-ball is in this country. It is hard to gather 
enough players to make it interesting, for it is an 
imitation of real warfare, and requires numbers. 
The establishment of a college like that at Beirut 
brought together a body of young men, and it was 
not long before the game was organized. Certain 
students soon came to be recognized as leaders, 
and the sport was for a time indulged in ; but 
whether the sudden languishing of the game was 
due to the interference of the faculty of the college 
or not, it is certain that some influence was brought 
to bear and the game was, for the time, stopped. 

I remember, one bright spring day, about forty 

young Arabs, sinewy and active, gathered on the 
campus of the Syrian Protestant College on the 
bluff, or promontory, of Ras Beirut, which stretches 
westward into the waters of the Mediterranean. 
The view eastward from that bluff is very fine ; and 
reaching north and south to the horizon were the 
gray ranges of Lebanon, one peak of which was 
still covered with snow. The blue-gray of the 
mountains, outlined against the unclouded blue 
sky, shades down near the base into the lovely 
greens and silver of the olive and mulberry 
orchards which reach for miles over the plain. 
There, too, was the city, — the Naples of the east- 
ern JVIediterranean, rising in a semicircle on the 
hill from the rocky shore of the bay, — a city of flat- 
roofed and French-tiled houses showing through 
the foliage of the trees, with here and there a 
graceful minaret, a church spire, or the ruins of 
a mediaeval castle tower. 

That morning, however, we did not notice the 
scenery — we would n't have thought much of it, if 
any one had pointed it out. Many of us were very 
nervous. I was one of the younger players who 



were in for their first game. I was tlie only Fraiijy, 
or American, in that game, and I was under the 
special tutelage of an enormous Arab — one who 
could throw his wooden spear farther than any other 
player present ; and he was going to show me how 
to play. 

The general plan of the game is as follows : 

Sides are chosen by the leaders, and lines marked 

out, about a spear's-throw apart. This distance 

varies with the size and strength of the players, 

thirty yards being a fair average. Each player has 

him, as it goes by. This sounds more difficult than 
it really is. The player dodges as the spear ap- 
proaches, so that it will shoot past his side, — the 
right side, if possible, — and then, as it passes him, 
he sweeps it in with his hand and brings it down to 
the side, reversing it so as to throw it back again, 
all in a moment. 

Under the big Arab's instruction, it soon be- 
came possible for me both to catch my spear and 
occasionally to cast it very near the fellow opposed 
to me. 


a blunt wooden spear, about the shape of a billiard 
cue, only not so small in proportion at the smaller 
end. It is shaped in such a way that when balanced 
on the finger and then grasped, it will not be held 
at the middle, but at a point a little nearer the 
larger end. A y^rtY'^/ player must possess skill in 
two ways : He must be able to hurl the spear far 
and true, and also to catch a spear, when thrown at 

Vol. XV. — 12. 

The object of the game is for one side to drive 
the other side back and to occupy its line. But it 
is not so rough a game as this purpose would seem 
to imply. Not half so many accidents occur as in 
base-ball, and it is not nearly so rough as foot-ball, 
since the object of the game can be attained very 
easily and quickly by throwing the spear over the 
head of your opponent ; for then he has to run back 




and pick up his spear, — and that not only weakens 
the enemies' hne, but gives them, for the time, one 
less spear-thrower. 

For so warlike a game, anger is seldom shown by- 
Arab players. There are always some hot-headed 
fellows in any country who use games as occasions 
and covers for wreaking petty spites. Fair play is 
the rule ; but in one game that day, two mean 
fellows combined against a single member of the 
opposing line, and of course he could n't dodge 
two spears at once. 

The leader of the other side was a handsome, 
well-built fellow called Muir, or " Leopard." He 
was jumping to catch a spear that was going over 
his head, to prevent its falling back of the line, 
when another spear hit him full in the forehead 
and laid him out flat. 

This stopped the game at once. An Arab 
could hardly understand the practice of carrying 
a disabled man off the field and putting in a sub- 
stitute ; and the substitute would probably be super- 
stitious about taking so unlucky a position. 

In itself,yVvtYv/ is a manly game. It brings all the 
muscles into play, and exercises the eye and the 
body in quickness and precision of movement. It 
is hardly, however, a game for Americans to play. 
It is seen in perfection when played by the Arab 
horsemen, as they go through the spear move- 
ments at full gallop on their beautiful horses, — 
hurling the long, quivering spears through the air, 
and catching them, in the midst of their evolutions 
and while riding at top speed. 

Of course an article on Arab children's games 
can not have so much interest for girls as for boys, 
because of the sad position of girls in Eastern 
homes. Their condition is rapidly growing better, 
however, and many Moslem girls now know how to 
read and write. They go to the Mission schools, 
and in their play hours they learn the games that 
are taken from this country. Besides, they have 
other gamesof their own, — a sort of "hop-scotch," 
and a few of similar nature. 

A word about ball-playing. For the bojs will, 
of course, want to know if a>n' game of ball is 
played by the Arabs. 

You all have seen a Mandarin orange. Well, 
their ball is of almost that size and shape, and not 
a bit harder; and the only game played is hand- 
ball. We were playing once on the college 
grounds in Beirut, and the son of the president of 
the college, an American boy, slyly substituted an 
American base-ball for the ordinary "/a/iiy.'' But 
tlie first player to whom it was thrown took it for 
a stone, and there was "sudden trouble." Expla- 
nations were of little avail; and if the offender had 
not been the president's son, he might have been 

" Do the Franjy play with stones? " they asked 
in ridicule. 

There is a beautiful shade-tree in the east called 
x\ic ::insalitc/it. It is, I think, the tree known as "the 
pride of India." It bears a small berry, about the 
size of a pea. These berries grow in clusters, and 
when green are very hard. The children, boys and 
girls together, use them in a game based on the 
same principle as Jackstraws. A little mound of 
earth is piled up, — in which there are many lay- 
ers of these berries, — the whole being carefully 
shaped into a cone with one berry on the top, 
and fine earth sifted over. The game consists in 
removing the berries, one by one, on the end of a 
pin stuck in a stick, and it is quite difficult ; for, as 
in Jackstraws, if any berry besides the one for 
which you are trying is moved or rolls down, you 
lose them both, together with your turn. 

Probably the main point that impresses you in 
reading of these games is their extreme simplicity. 
They are not intricate, they are absolutely inex- 
pensive, they arc nearly all of them what may be 
called unorganized games. But they are suited to 
the simple life and habits of the children of Syria. 
Life is free and open ; the sky is almost unclouded 
for four or five months in the year. What a chance 
for Sunday-school picnics! No postponements "on 
account of rain " there, during the summer. Sim- 
ple food, cooked appetizingly, and delicious fruits 
in abundance and perfection are amazingly cheap. 
Oranges for which American boys pay five cents 
apiece can be bought in Syria at the rate of five, 
or sometimes six, for a cent. But the money is 
correspondingly harder to get. In Syria, a boy 
with two small coins can "treat" to two cups of 
hakeb ya booz, or ice-cream, which a turbancd and 
trousered Arab peddles on the street. 

How American children would enjoy the riding 
in the East ! Donkeys, donkeys everywhere — for 
those who can't ride horses. And such donkeys ! 
So many kinds, and shapes, and sizes — but mostly 
small. The large, handsome donkeys are expen- 
sive, and are almost as fleet as horses. Tripoli, 
a city north of Beirut, is a mile or so inland, and 
the Mccna is the name of its harbor. At that port 
is a large stable where a great many donkeys, ready 
saddled, used to be on hire. They were trained as 
soon as they were mounted by a traveler to s'tart for 
Tripoli, where there was a similar stand. If a rider 
dismounted at any part of the city, he merely turned 
the donkey loose and it w'ould trot to its place. They 
were so small that one tall man, who had difficulty 
in riding them by reason of the length of his legs, 
was in the habit of dismounting by the simple ex- 
pedient of merely straightening out his legs and let- 
ting his feet strike the ground, whereupon the don- 
key trotted from under its rider and away to its stall. 





But after all, there is no greater fascination for 
Arab children than a well-told story, and, as a 
rule, there are in every village one or two persons 
who tell stories, and who are in great demand at 
weddings and feasts. Any stories, short or long, 
superstitious or humorous, true or wildly improb- 
able, are acceptable ; and the narrator is soon the 
center of a circle of intent listeners. Their stories 
are not, as a rule, involved. They are simple, and 
it is sometimes remarkable what close attention is 
paid even to a monotonous tale which has no strik- 
ing incident or adventure to lighten it. 

They enjoy humor, and local hits are quite com- 
mon." One story has been told in a book on home- 
life in the East, entitled '■ Women of the Arabs," 
which shows this C|uality. 

There was a certain pool or spring to which the 
whole of a certain village resorted to draw water. 
But there arose a feud between the northern and 
southern sections of the village, and they quarreled 
about the spring. They finally compromised by 
putting a rail fence through the middle of the pond, 
beyond which neither side should trespass. But 
the temporary peace was broken and the feud re- 

newed, because one night a southerner was caught in 
the act of scooping up water in a dipper on the north 
side and bailing it over to his side — so flagrant a 
breach of faith that the fighting began again at once. 

But the stories told to children are simple and 
not unamusing by any means. 

They have a story to the effect that when the 
world began and Satan acquired his license to come 
here, he arrived " with seven bags of lies which he 
expected to distribute in the seven kingdoms of the 
earth. The first night after he reached the earth, 
he slept iji Syria, and opening one of the bags, let 
the lies loose in the land. But while he was 
asleep, some one came and opened all the other 
bags, so that Syria got more than her share." 

In conclusion I give an instance of Arab supersti- 
tion. A boy was one day running swiftly along 
the street, and turning a corner sharply, he only 
escaped knocking down a little child by jumping 
over it. He was stopped by hearing frantic shrieks. 
Fearing he had hurt the child, he halted and turned, 
and was implored by the weeping mother to jump 
back again, as, according to Arab belief, his leaping 
over the child would stop or stunt its growth. 


By Elizabeth Robins Pennell. 

You might as well try to imagine a Christmas 
at home without presents as a Christmas in Lon- 
don without pantomimes. The best of it is that 
the pantomimes do not, like too many candies or 
toys, come to an end with Christmas week. They 
have a delightful way of making the Christmas 
holidays last until the first spring flowers are out 
in the woods and fields, and the first Easter eggs 
in the shop windows. If you can not go to see 
them before the ist of January, you need not be 
troubled as you would if Christmas presents had 
not come long before New Year's Day. There 
will be plenty of chances next month, and the 
month after, and even the month after that. 

It is best to explain in the very beginning that 
they are not pantomimes at all. Englishmen 
love to call things by the names they have long 
outgrown, and because once there were really 
pantomimes in which not a word was spoken, 
these Christmas entertainments of nowadays, in 
which there is plenty of talking and even singing, 
must keep the old name. 

And if they are not pantomimes, what are they 
then, do you ask? It is much easier to say what 
they are not. Shows so wonderful and gorgeous 
you might well think were never to be seen this 
side of Fairyland. They are full of dancing and 
marching, of joking and tumbling, of gay music 
and still gayer lights. They take you into all 
sorts of strange places and introduce you to old 
friends you have loved ever since you can remem- 
ber : to Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, to Alad- 
din and the wonderful lamp, to Blue Beard and 
Fatima, to Robinson Crusoe and Friday. To be 
sure, you would never recognize them if their 
names were not given in the programme, but nev- 
ertheless they are as ready to amuse you on the 
stage as they ever were in the story-book. Be- 
sides you learn a great deal about them you never 
knew before. And then, too, there are beasts or 
birds or fish straight from Wonderland, and just as 
you begin to feel that you have seen sights enough 
for one day, hey, presto ! the scene changes and 
in come Columbine and Harlequin, Clown and 
Pantaloon, policemen and bad boys, shop-keepers 
and market-women. 

If you lived in London it would not be worth 
while for me to tell you that the greatest panto- 
mime of all is to be seen at Drury Lane. Every 
London child, from the Queen's grandson to the 
little street Arab, knows Drury Lane Theater as 
well as, if not better than, Westminster Abbey or 
St. Paul's. For three, sometimes four, months 
it belongs to him in a way; for, though grown- 
up people go to see the pantomime, every one 
knows It is meant specially for the children. You 
would not doubt this for a moment had you been 
with me one Saturday afternoon early in 1887, 
when I went to Drury Lane. I thought I had 
come in good time, but once I was inside the door 
I heard the loudest, merriest singing, so that 
a short delay at the ticket-office made me quite 
impatient. When I was shown to my seat, to my 
surprise the curtain was still down. The music, 
however, had begun, and, looking around, I saw 
that the great theater was packed from top to 
bottom with children, and all were singing an ac- 
companiment to the orchestra. Box above box, 
balcony above balcony was lined with little faces; 
mothers and fathers, older brothers and sisters 
thoughtfully taking back seats, while I don't know 
how many schools had emptied their children into 
the pit. You must know that the part of the 
theater called the parquet with us, is in England 
the pit, only a few of the front rows being re- 
ser\-ed. "God save the Queen ! " struck up the 
band. " Long may she reign over us ! " sang the 
children. It would have put you into a good 
humor at once to look up and down and all around 
at the beaming faces and open mouths. 

Bang, bang ! went the bass drum, the singing 
stopped, up went the curtain, and we beheld an 
earthly paradise where huge lilac-trees made a 
pretty bower for dancing girls, who, as their loose 
trousers and clinging skirts showed, had just 
stepped out of the Arabian Nights. In the midst 
of their dancing, a hansom, the first, I am sure, 
that was ever seen in the Mohammedan paradise, 
drove up and Aladdin jumped out. He had 
come with a message from Mr. Augustus Harris, 
the manager of Drury Lane, who wanted a new 
Eastern story. Aladdin, you must know, was the 




hero of the pantomimes the year before ; that he 
remained with Mr. Harris as his messenger is not 
to be wondered at, since on the Drury Lane stage 
as strange things happen as in Scheherezade's 
stories. What could be stranger, for instance, than 
that forty young Arabian kniglrts should consent 
to leave paradise and humming-birds' eggs and 
jasmine wine to become forty thieves ! And yet, 
so willing were they, that when Aladdin suggested 
it they danced and sang with joy at the very 
thought of the change. -So I found out something 
the story does not tell me — where the forty 
thieves came from ! 

This being pleasantly settled, the next thing was 
to find Ali Baba, for without him there would have 
been no story to tell of the thieves. In a moment, 
houris and knights, Aladdin and lilacs had dis- 
appeared and we were in the bazaar of an eastern 
city with people going and coming. On one side 
was Ali Baba's shop ; on the other, Cassim's. " No 
connection with the shop opposite ! " was posted 
up on each. You remember, of course, how little 
friendship there was between the brothers. When 
Morgiana and Ganem, Ali Baba and Cogia, Cassim 
Baba and his wife (how familiar were all the 
names) met in front of the shops, — " Well, I was 
astonished!" as Joey the clown said afterward 
in the Harlequinade. Ali Baba was very much 
shabbier and more disreputable than I expected ; 
Cogia, it was quite plain, was just making believe 
to be a woman ; Morgiana's silks and sashes were 
not in the least like the clothes I supposed slaves 
usually wore. And 1 could only put down to Ori- 
ental manners the fact that every few minutes, no 
matter what they were talking about, they were 
sure to sing and dance. This was a fine opportu- 
nity for the children looking on. 

" You 're all very fine and large, 
Because you 've heaps of cash," 

sang Cogia to the wealthy sister and brother. 
And then all the children came in with the chorus, 

" You 're all very fine and large," 

as if they had lived in the same street with Ali and 
Cassim all their lives, and the leader of the orches- 
tra turned round and kept time for them, It was 
great fun. 

When they were all singing together it seemed 
as if the Babas must have forgotten the family 
quarrels. But not a bit of it. "I 've an idea," 
whispered Cassim to his wife, 

" The donkey that we 've bought 
Has proved more vicious than at first we thought. 
He 's almost sure to kill some oneor other. 
So I propose to give him to my brother ! " 

Ganem brought in the donkey. And what was 
the first thing it did ? It knocked over Cassim 




with its flying heels ; it stood on its head in the cor- 
ner ; it gave Cogia a friendly embrace ; it danced, 
it turned somersaults, and at last stretched itself 
full length on Cassim's counter. If such a donkey 
were in the Zoo, the bear-pit and the monkey- 
house would be deserted. 

And now you know what is going to happen. 
Bazaar and Bnba family disappear in their turn, 
and here we are away in the depths of the forest. 
Dozens of little monkeys are running and playing 

and leaping, 
while two or 
three swing 
and forward 
on long ropes 
all of flowers 
hanging from 
the very tall- 
est of trees. 
Ali Babaand 
. Ganem with 
hatchets and 
caskets come 
to get wood, 
the faithful 
donkey just 
at their heels, 
and the mon- 
keys vanish ; 
while Cogia 
and Morgi- 
ana bring 
their luncheon, lobster and tongue, pies and sauces, 
for all the world as if they were picnicking in an 
English instead of an " Arabian Nights " forest. 
A large monkey joins the family circle, and 
then what a frolic he and the donkey have ! 
They steal the luncheon, put their feet in the bas- 
ket, upset the pepper and set poor Ali Baba to 
sneezing ; they dance and play leap-frog, they fight 
and " make up again," the monkey sits on the don- 
key, the donkey puts his head on the monkey's 
knees. " But, what 's that ? " cries Ganem. 
" What 's what ? " echoes Ali Baba. There is a 
sound of trumpets in the distance. It comes 
nearer and nearer. 

"The famous Forty Thieves, I should n't won- 
der ! " Ali declares, and away they all run to hide, 
monkey and donkey jumping together into a bar- 
rel, and the next minute, to the loudest music, — 
for these are gay robbers and defy the police, — the 
Forty Thieves march out from under the trees. 
They are dressed in a style befitting gentlemen 
late from an Eastern paradise and now engaged 
in parading through forests at noon with bags of 
precious stones over their shoulders. The captain. 


resplendent in gold-embroidered cloak and waving 
plumes, leads the way ; at his side the Honorary 
Secretary, Ally Sloper, a hideous creature with bald 
head and monstrous nose, who got into paradise by 
mistake, but into his present position by his own 
free will. 

" Open Sesame ! " shouts the captain. 

With a deep booming and banging, the rock at 
one side opens, and then emeralds and diamonds 
and rubies are stored. 

" Shut Sesame ! " commands the captain. 

Another great booming and banging, and soon, 
singing gayly, the thieves arc off to their club. 

And now it is Ali Baba's turn to open and shut 
Sesame, and the treasures that have just been 
brought to the cave are soon on their way out of the 
forest, this time on the donkey's back. It is very 
much more real when you see it all than when you 
just read about it. 

There would be no use for railroads in Drury 
Lane country. The treasure-finders are scarcely 
out of sight of the cave when lo, and behold ! here 
they are in Ali Baba's humble home. You know 
already what a blunder it was to borrow the 
measure from Cassim's wife. She finds, busy- 
body that she is, the tell-tale piece of gold sticking 
to the lard she has put at the bottom. Of course 
no one can tell where it came from, but just then 
what should those two troublesome beasts do but 
dip hoofs and 
paws into the 
money-bag and 
jingle it up and 
down. There is 
no help for it. 
The secret must 
be shared with 
Cassim or else 
he will call the 
police. But, in 
the mean time, in 
comes a man to 
be shaved, for 
Ali Baba is a 
barber by profes- 
sion. The mon- 
key watches, and 
no sooner is he 
left alone in the 
shop with thedon- 
key than he puts 
the latter in the 
chairand himself - 
seizes the razor. 

The white lather comes out of the basin in great 
stiff patches and foamy flakes. The donkey's eyes, 
ears, mouth are soon covered and he never moves. 




breaks into 
It is a good 

But with the first stroke of the razor, tlic cliair 
is kicked over and lie is in a corner spluttering, 
and shaking his head angrily. In a moment he 
catches sight of the monkey grinning at him in 
derision. And now there is a very interesting 
fight, I promise you. The looking-glass crashes 
over the donkey's head, the table 
splinters under the monkey's weight, 
thing for Ali Baba that he has just 
come into a fortune, for there will be 
bills to pay. The monkey tries to 
escape, but where shall he go ? 
Quick as thought he springs up to 
the opera-box close to the stage, 
and off he runs on the very edge 
of boxes and balcony. Little look- 
ers-on jump back with frightened 
faces. But the donkey is after 
the fugitive and soon overtakes 
him. Down he slips, holding on 
by his hands, his feet dangling over 
the heads of the people in the pit. 
Then both sit and rest, the monkey 
seizing a programme from the near- 
est child to fan itself. And then, 
I hardly know how it happens, they 
are running a race, one on one 
side of the house, one on the other. 
Who will win ? Neither. They 
jump down from the opposite boxes 
at the same moment, meet in the 
middle of the stage, embrace, make 
a great ball of themselves, and roll 
over and over, off the stage. I 
don't think I should care to live in 
Ali Baba's "humble home" with two 
such pets about. 

Have you not always wished to 
see the inside of that famous cave ? 
Now that we see it, I do not think 
it is disappointing. Great walls 
and lofty ceiling of brown rock are 
lighted by huge brass lamps ; mys- 
terious narrow passages -glitter with 
gold and lead to untold treasures. 
I for my part am not surprised that 
Cassim will not go, despite the efforts of Ali Baba 
and Cogia. 

Boom, boom ! bang, bang ! and not only the 
door at the mouth of the cave high above his 
head, but all those opening into the glittering 
passages are shut. It is too late. In vain does 
he shout, "Open Sausages! Open Sardines!" 
In vain does he weep and wail. But some one 
outside gives the true pass-word, and bang, boom ! 
boom, bang ! the doors are open again. 

Yet even now there is no escape. In march 

not forty, but four hundred and more thieves, all 
in silks and satins, in velvet and plush of every 
color, with gold and silver armor and jeweled 
spears and swords. There is no doubt of the 
industry of these gentlemen robbers. They carry 
the proof on their backs. Forward comes the 
captain, out-shining all in the glory of his black 
and silver brocade, his jewels sparkling from arms 


and neck and waist, and his cloak so long that it 
must be borne by a dozen tiny pages. Above, at 
the entrance of the cave, stands Ally Sloper, his 
vermilion cloak held out by his arms so that he 
looks like a great red bat. 

So gay are the thieves that their meeting is 
always the signal for song. But I don't think 
any one pays much attention to the singing. I 
suppose the upshot of their visit to the cave is the 
death of Cassim, for not long after he is brought 
home, in four pieces, by Ali Baba and Cogia. 

1 84 



Everything now happens very much as it does in 
the story-book, only the Baba family are more 
cheerful in their mourning than you might have 
expected. All's and Cogia's new clothes are in 
worse taste than even their previous inexperience 
would warrant ; while Cogia, now that she has 
no work to do, brings home all the stray children 
she finds in the street. 

She is not pretty to look at, in her fine new blue- 
spangled trousers, short yellow-spangled skirts, 
and red-spangled bodice, two long pigtails dang- 
ling down her back, a little blue fan in her hand. 
But, to make up for it, nothing could be prettier 
than the screaming, laughing children who gather 
around her. I fancy it is because they are little 
Eastern children that they wear such queer long 
sage-green gowns, with broad belts and jaunty 

Now they must go to bed, says their adopted 
mother. Will they be good children ? " Yes, in- 
deed ! as good as good can be. " But once her back 
is turned, the fun begins. Off come gowns and 
belts, blue petticoats and caps, and there they are 
in long white night-gowns and tasseled night-caps. 
In another minute they are sitting on the floor 
pulling off their shoes, and all the time they are 
singing, and whenever they have the opportunity, 
dancing in time to the music. 

Clothes are carefully folded, each seizes her pile, 
too big for some tiny arms, and a shoe drops here, 
a cap there, but the little ones dance bravely in 
and out ; not to bed, however, for here they are 
again, now armed with pillows. Our pillow-fights 
at school, as I remember them, were very rough 
and ugly compared with this fairy game, in which 
white figures dance to and fro, and white pillows 
wave up and down as yellow curly heads and 
dangling tassels dodge them. 

How the children in pit and boxes applaud ! 
While they are still clapping, the children on the 
stage run out and bring back a lady in black, and 
there is more applause, for she it is who has taught 
them to go singing and dancing to bed. When- 
ever the children are applauded at Drury Lane, 
and you may be sure they always are, they bring 
forward their dancing-mistress, as if to remind you 
that to her must be given all the praise for what 
they do. 

While they have been pillow-fighting, Abdal- 
lah, the captain of the thieves, has placed his jars 
in All Baba's court. There they stand in two 
rows, great tall jars with heads peeping out of 
them. The plot is laid. Ali Baba and his house- 
hold must be slain this night. But Morgiana by 
herself is a fair match for Abdallah with all his 
followers. To tell the truth, I always thought the 
thieves in the story sad cowards to let themselves 

be scalded to death by one slave girl without a 
struggle. And now that I have looked on at 
their last moments I have a still poorer opinion of 
them. For forty young robbers, boldly defiant in 
the daytime, well armed and wide awake too, — 
for they had their heads out of the jar but a 
minute before, — to be thus cowed by a girl with 
a tiny watering-pot and a boy with a dagger quite 
as tiny ! Well, it is shameful, and 1 am not in the 
least sorry for them. 

Abdallah, nothing daunted, comes back to Ali 
Baba with some story about his jars. Morgiana 
is called upon to dance and she does so, to the cap- 
tain's sorrow. He leans forward to applaud ; in 
goes the dagger; he falls in Cogia's arms. Now 
no story is a story unless in the end every one 
marries and lives happy ever afterward. Mrs. 
Cassim, the widow, marries that ugly thief Ally 
Sloper — the sly one, he knew better than to put 
himself like oil into ajar! Morgiana and Ganem 
join hands. And immediately the captain (no 
doctors needed here !) comes to life without any 
difficulty. His services will be in demand to-mor- 
row night, he fears, and so he really could not re- 
main dead. — Now, 1 protest that 's all wrong. The 
next thing we know, Cinderella won't marry the 
prince, Jack won't kill the giant, Robinson Crusoe 
won't find his man Friday. But it 's no use protest- 
ing. Ali Baba, and what is more, Morgiana is satis- 
fied ; and with their victim and Ally Sloper and the 
donkey and Ganem, and Cogia and Mrs. Cassim, 
they sing and dance good-bye to us. 

Do you think this is the end ? Far from it ; 
we 're only at the beginning, you might say. It 's a 
good deal to see in one afternoon, I must admit, 
and I notice that the children before me and on 
every side of me no longer join in the chorus. 

Soon after Ali Baba and his friends have dis- 
appeared, we find ourselves in the Temple of 
Fame, — a huge statue of Queen Victoria in the 
center, women in silken robes and men in glitter- 
ing armor surrounding it. Red, green, golden lights 
burn from every side. Whatever it may mean, I 
am quite sure this meeting in the Temple of 
Fame is well worth looking at. 

And now surely this is the end ? Not yet ; 
patience a minute. From the Temple of Fame 
we are carried to a London street, where we find 
those best of all old friends. Columbine, twirling 
and pirouetting, Harlequin waving his magic 
wand. The clown plays his tricks, turns his 
somersaults, poor Pantaloon is fooled ; the police- 
man gets the worst of it ; the bad boys escape. It 
is the same old story you know so well, but which 
somehow always makes you laugh as if it were 

But the best fun of all is when Joey, having 



dressed a little squealing black pig in baby clothes, 
puts it in the baby carriage, and the pig gets loose 
and jumps from the stage down upon the big drum. 
The drummer does not like it ; but the children do, 
and, amid shouts of laughter, the pig is caught and 
handed to the clown and wheeled out in the car- 
riage. Then Joey gets rid of the policeman for a 
moment and brings from the nearest shop a small 
barrel, from which he takes handfuls of toy crack- 
ers and flings them to the nearest children in the 
audience. A little girl in white is perched up on 
the front seat of a box. "There 's my little 

always may be sure there will be dancing and 
singing, gay dresses, and crowds of men and 
women to wear them. 

Last year, however, there was one Christmas 
entertainment not in the least like the others, but 
which I thought the best of all. It was a perform- 
ance of " Alice in Wonderland," at the Prince of 
Wales' Theater. It seemed too good to be true, 
to have the opportunity of beholding Alice and the 
extraordinary and delightful "creatures" which 
she met in her two famous journeys. A few of 
these creatures, the Lizard, the Mouse, and the 




sweetheart ! " he cries in his cracked voice, and 
throws her one. In the box above, a boy leans 
far over with hand outstretched. The clown 
holds up a cracker, but just as the little fingers 
are about to close on it, he pulls it away. He must 
always have his joke, you see. What a laugh 
there is on every side ! But the next minute, half 
a dozen pretty gay-colored crackers are thrown into 
the same box. No matter what changes there 
may be, each new year, at Drury Lane, the clown 
never forgets his barrel of crackers. 

Now I hope you have some idea of what Lon- 
don Christmas pantomimes are like. There are 
three or four theaters besides Drury Lane where 
you can go to see them. A different story is pre- 
sented in each, but whether the hero is All Baba 
or Aladdin, Blue Beard or Robinson Crusoe, you 

Puppy, for example, were missing ; and on the 
stage Alice did not meet with some adventures 
recorded in the book. Her head did not go wan- 
dering among the topmost branches of trees to be 
mistaken for a serpent, neither did she shrink until 
her chin and feet met with a violent blow. But most 
of the entertaining dwellers in Wonderland and 
Looking-glass country — the Rabbit and the Cater- 
pillar, the Mad Hatter, the March Hare, the Dor- 
mouse, the Cards and Chessmen and their Kings 
and Queens, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Hump- 
ty Dumpty, and the Knights — were there ; and as 
for adventures, if several were left out, there were 
still many presented — enough for one afternoon. 

Alice was, just as you would suppose, a pretty 
little girl in a simple white frock, and with long hair 
hanging down her back. She had fallen asleep, it 





seemed, under a large tree with wide-spreading 
branches, and when the curtain went up we saw 
the kind fairies — they were not any older than 
Alice — who brought her 
strange dreams. It is 
pleasant traveling in Won- 
derland. Alice had scarce- 
ly started when she met 
the White Rabbit " splen- 
didly dressed " in a jaunty 
jacket, as you see him in 
the picture, and in wool- 
ly rabbit-skin trousers, a 
high collar and bright red 
necktie. In his waistcoat- 
pocket he wore his watch, 
like any other gentleman. 
He was a very timid rabbit, 
and the first word sent him 
scurryingaway. The green 

Caterpillar sat smoking its hookah on the mush- 
room and made Alice recite, '• You are old. Father 
William," while the foliage in the background 
opened, and there we saw the old man turning his 
somersaults, standing on his head, balancing the 
eel on his nose, kicking his son downstairs. The 
Duchess, who was much better-looking than her pict- 
ures, though ugly enough, came in with the baby ; 
the cook, neat and pretty, her sleeves rolled up, a 
fresh white cap on her curly hair, followed with 
her pepper-pot and the Cheshire Cat, with his 
grin. The latter was as accomplished as the 

donkey at Drury Lane, and sang and danced with 
Alice, grinning all the time. 

I take it for granted you have read the two books 



about Alice. Indeed, 1 believe there are few 
young people who can read English who do not 
know them both by heart. You remember, then, 
the tea-partv? Of all her adventures, it was always 
mv favorite, and I could have clapped my hands 





with the children when I saw tlie Mad Hatter and and put it on a chair between himself and the 
the March Hare bring in the table with the tea- March Hare. It was the Dormouse — the tiniest, 
things on it. Among the cups and saucers and sweetest, sleepiest Dormouse you can imagine. 



bread and butter was a soft gray something, curled Its little gray head was down on the table at once, 
up like a pussy-cat. The Mad Hatter picked it up, and it was having its own dreams. The March 




"TUI.XKIi.. rv. I'.KllL. LITTLE ['.AT! 

Hare wore a staring red waistcoat, and around his 
left ear was a wreath of roses. He looked very 
mad. So did the Hatter, in blue and white plaid 
trousers and an enormous gray hat placarded with 
its price. As you know, it was always tea-time 
with them, and, drinking and eating, they began at 
once their talk — mad as themselves. Every nov/ 
and then the Dormouse woke up for a minute, to 
join in, with the prettiest little voice. I wish you 
could have heard the story of Elsie, Lacie, and 
Tillie who lived at the bottom of a well on treacle, 
and the solemn way in which, when Alice said they 
must have been very ill, it answered, 

" So they were ! very ill ! " 

But what a sleepy Dormouse ! Down went the 
little gray head after every few words, and the 
March Hare had to push and push it to keep it 
awake till the end of the story. But then it was 
such a very young Dormouse ; not more than six 
years old certainly. 

When the Mad Hatter and the March Hare had 
carried out the table and the sleeping Dormouse, 
I was sorry to see they did not play croquet with 
flamingoes and hedgehogs. However, the Mock 
Turtle and the Gryphon danced the Lobster 
Quadrille, and that is a sight only to be seen in 
dreams, I can assure you. The two "creatures" 
looked exactly as they do in the pictures in Mr. 

Carroll's book. When little Alice stood between 
the tall green Gryphon, whose brilliant wings 
flapped with every movement, and the awkward 
Mock Turtle, whose long tail dragged on the floor, 
I thought of Beauty and the Beast. Only here were 
two Beasts to one Beauty. 

It would be simply impossible to describe all the 
things I dreamed with Alice that afternoon. For 
her dream did not end with the trial of the Knave 
of Hearts, who stole those tarts and took them quite 
away ; or when the little Dormouse slept in the 
very face of the court, and the White Rabbit as 
Herald blew many blasts on his trumpet, and the 
Mad Hatter, tea-cup in hand, gave his evidence, 
and Alice herself pronounced the verdict — " Not 

Without once waking up, she went straight from 
Wonderland into Looking-Glass Country, where 
white and red chessmen sang and danced, Humpty 
Dumpty sat on the wall and had his great fall, 
and Tweedledum and Tweedledee fought their 
great battle. If you only could have seen Tweedle- 
dum and Tweedledee, fat over-grown boys with tiny 
caps on their heads, when they and Alice. played 





" Here we go round the mulberry bush"! Why, 
such great fun they seemed to be having that it 
made one feci like jumping up, joining hands, and 
going round the mulberry bush with them. And 
the way Tweedledum cried over his rattle ! I know 
a little girl who, when she is angry, screams so 
loud her father calls her " the Tuscaroarer " ; but 
her screams could not compare with Tweedle- 
dum's. And then the battle ! To see those two 
big boys who ought to have known better, tying 
blankets and bolsters around their waists, and 
sticking coal-scuttles on their heads. — well, if it 
had not all happened in a dream, certainly it 
would have shocked a careful housewife. 

After the Carpenter and the Walrus had eaten 
up the oysters, and the Lion and the Unicorn had 
fought for the crown, Alice was made Queen, and 
gave her party, to which all the Chessmen came. 
The Cook brought in the Leg of Mutton on a big 
dish, and up it jumped and made a bow ; the Plum 
Pudding walked in, and when Alice cut out a great 
slice, a little wee voice, very like that of the Dor- 
mouse, cried from the inside : 

" I wonder how you would like it if I were to cut 
a slice out of you ! " 

Almost at once the banquet hall, the new queen, 
and all her guests disappeared, and Ahce was 
again sleeping in the big chair under the tree. 
Once more the fairies waved their wands, and this 
time Alice rubbed her eyes. 

" Oh, I 've had such a curious dream ! " she said 
when she awoke. "And a pleasant dream, too," 1 
think all those who woke up with her said to them- 

Just let me say a few more words, to tell you 
that one of the charms of the performance was the 
pleasure of the children who took part in it — and 
all but two of the performers were children. You 


forgot that they were not playing merely to amuse 
themselves. That they were working seemed as 
unlikely as that birds are practicing their scales 
when they sing. 

Alice's dream ended in due time; but that is no 
reason why she may not dream again. The pan- 
tomimes of last winter came to an end ; but this 
season new ones will take their place, and may you 
and 1 be in London to see ! 



By Julia JIaoruder. 

No. II. 

■Felix Holt." 

OB TUDGE was a 
little boy whose 
father and mother 
were dead; and, as 
his grandfather was 
old and poor, one of 
the neighbors, whose 
name was Felix 
Holt, had taken 
Job home, where he 
and his mother could 
care for the child. 
'■Job was a small fellow about five, with a germinal 
nose ; large, round, blue eyes, and red hair, that 
curled close to his head like the wool on the back 
of an infantine lamb." 

One day little Job cut his finger and came to Mr. 
Holt to have it bound up. Mr. Holt was a watch- 

maker, but also had a class of small boys whom 
he used to teach as he sat in front of a table cov- 
ered with his watch-making tools. He was sitting 
in his place when Job came to have his finger doc- 
tored. " Two benches stood at right angles on the 
sanded floor, and si.K or seven boys, of various ages 
up to twelve, were getting their caps and prepar- 
ing to go home." As Mr. Holt took Job on his 
knee and began to tie up his tiny finger, a young 
lady came into the room. Job had never seen her, 
although she was a friend of Mr. Holt's. She 
looked sad and was really in trouble ; for she 
felt very much afraid that Mr. Holt was angry 
with her because of some words she had said the 
last time they had met ; and she had come, under 
pretext of having her watch examined, to say that 
she was sorry and to ask his forgiveness. Mr. 
Holt went on with his task, saying to the young 
lady, whose name was Esther Lyon : 

" 'This is a hero, IMiss Lyon. This is Job Tudge, 



a bold Briton whose finger hurts him, but who 
does n't mean to cry.' 

Miss Lyon seated herself on the end of a bench 
and waited until the bandaging was completed, 
when Mr. Holt said : 

" 'There, Job, — thou patient man, — sit still, if 
tliou wilt ; and now we can lool: at Miss Lyon.' 

" Esther had taken off her watcli, and was holding 
it in her hand ; but he looked at her face, or rather 
at her eyes, as he said, ' You want me to doctor 
your watch ? ' 

Whereupon Miss Lyon told him what she most 
wanted to see him about, and, as she went on, 
she become so much in earnest that the tears ran 
down her cheeks. Suddenly little Job, who had 
been making his own reflections upon all that took 
place, called out, impatiently : 

" ' She 's tut her finger ! ' 

Mr. Holt and Miss Lyon laughed ; and, as the 
latter raised her handkerchief to wipe the tears 
from her cheeks, she said : 

" ' You see. Job, I 'm a naughty coward. I can't 
help crying when I 've hurt myself.' 

" ' Zoo sood n't kuy,' said Job, energetically, be- 
ing much impressed with a moral doctrine which 
had come to him after a sufficient transgression 
of it. 

"'Where does Job Tudge live?' said Miss 
Lyon, still sitting and looking at the droll little fig- 
ure, set off by a ragged jacket with a tail about 
two inches deep, sticking out above the funniest of 

" ' Job has two mansions. He lives here chiefly, 
but he has another home, where his grandfather, 
the stone-breaker, lives. My mother is very good 
to Job, Miss Lyon. She has made him a little bed 
in a cupboard, and she gives him sweetened por- 
ridge. ' 

" ' Well, why should n't 1 be motherly to the 
child. Miss Lyon,' said Mrs. Holt, who had come 
in. ' I never was hard-hearted, and 1 never will 
be. It was Felix picked the child up and took to 
him. ' 

" 'Oh, tliey grow out of it very fast. Here 's 
Job Tudge, now,' said Felix, turning the little one 
around on his knee, and holding his head by the 
back. ' Job's limbs will get lanky, this little fist, 
that looks like a puff-ball, and can hide nothing 
bigger than a gooseberry, will get large and bony, 
and perhaps want to clutch inore than its share ; 
these wide blue eyes, that tell me more truth than 
Job knows, will narrow and narrow, and try to hide 
truth that Job would be better without knowing ; 
this little negative nose will become long and self- 
asserting, and this little tongue — put out thy 
tongue, Job.' Job, awe-struck, under this cere- 
mony, put out a little red tongue, very timidly. 
' This tongue, hardly bigger than a rose-leaf, will 
get large, and thick, wag out of season, do mis- 
chief, brag and cant for gain or vanity, and cut as 
cruelly for all its clumsiness, as if it were-a sharp- 
edged blade. Big Job will perhaps be naughty — ' 

" As Felix, speaking with the loud, emphatic 
distinctness habitual to him, brought out this ter- 
ribly familiar word. Job's sense of mj'stification 
became too painful, he hung his lips and began to 

" ' Look here. Job, my man,' said Felix, setting 
the boy down, and turning him toward Esther ; ' go 
to Miss Lyon, ask her to smile at you, and that 
will dry up your tears like sunshine.' 

" Job put his two brown fists on Esther's lap, and 
she stooped to kiss him. Then holding his face 
between her hands she said, ' Tell Mr. Holt we 
don't mean to be naughty. Job. He should believe 
in us more. — But now, I must really go home.' " 



By Frank R. Stockton. 

Arla now walked on until she came to a street 
corner where a cobbler had a little shop. In the 
angle of the wall of the house, at the height of the 
second story, was a clock. This cobbler did not 
like the confined air and poor light of his shop, 
and whenever the weather allowed, he always 
worked outside on the sidewalk. To-day, although 
it was winter, the sun shone brightly on this side 
of the street, and he had put his bench outside, 
close to his door, and was sitting there, hard at 
work. When Aria stopped before him, he looked 
up and said, cheerfully : 

" Good-morning, Mistress Aria. Do you want 
them half-soled, or heeled, or a patch put on the 

" My shoes do not need mending," said Aria. 
'■ I came to ask you if you could tell me who has 
charge of the clock at this corner?" 

'■ I can easily do that," he said, "for I am the 
man. I am paid by the year, for winding it up 
and keeping it in order, as much as I should get 
for putting the soles, heels, tops, linings, and 
buckles on a pair of shoes." 

" Which means making them out and out," 
said Aria. 

" You are right," said he, " and the pay is not 
great ; but if it were larger, more people might 
want it and 1 might lose it ; and if it were less, how 
could 1 afford to do it at all? So 1 am satisfied." 

"But you ought not to be entirely satisfied," 
said Aria, " for the clock does not keep good time. 
I know when it is striking, for it has a very jangling 
sound, and it is the most irregular clock in Ron- 
daine. Sometimes it strikes as much as twenty- 
five minutes after the hour, and very often it does 
not strike at all." 

The cobbler looked up at her with a smile. " I 
am sorry," he said, "' that it has a jangling stroke, 
but the fashioning of clocks is not my trade, and I 
could not mend its sound with awl, hammer, or 
waxed-end. But it seems to me, my good maiden, 
that you never mended a pair of shoes." 

"No, indeed!" said Aria; "I should do that 
even worse than you would make clocks." 

" Never having mended shoes, then," said the 
cobbler, " you do not know what a grievous thing 
it is to have twelve o'clock, or six o'clock, or any 

other hour, in fact, come before you are ready for 
it. Now I don't mind telling you, because I know 
you are too good to spoil the trade of a hard-work- 
ing cobbler, — and shoemaker too, whenever he gets 
the chance to be one, — that when I have promised 
a customer that he shall have his shoes or his boots 
at a certain time of day, and that time is drawing 
near, and the end of the job is still somewhat dis- 
tant, then do I skip up the stair-way and set back 
the hands of the clock according to the work that 
has to be done. And when my customer comes I 
look up to the clock-face and I say to him, 'Glad 
to see you ! ' and then he will look up at the clock 
and will say, ' Yes, I am a little too soon ' ; and 
then, as likely as not, he will sit down on the door- 
step here by me and talk entertainingly; and it 
may happen that he will sit there without grum- 
bling, for many minutes after the clock has pointed 
out the hour at which the shoes were promised. 
Sometimes, when I have been much belated in 
beginning a job, I stop the clock altogether, for 
you can well see for yourself that it would not do 
to have it strike eleven when it is truly twelve. 
And so, if my man be willing to sit down, and 
our talk be very entertaining, the clock being 
above him where he can not see it without stepping 
outward from the house, he may not notice that it 
is stopped. This expedient once served me very 
well, for an old gentleman, over-testy and over- 
punctual, once came to me for his shoes, and 
looking up at the clock, which I had prepared for 
him, exclaimed, ' Bless me ! I am much too 
early ! ' And he sat down by me for three-quar- 
ters of an hour, in which time I persuaded him 
that his shoes were far too much worn to be worth 
mending any more, and that he should have a 
new pair, which, afterward, I made." 

" I do not believe it is right for you to do that," 
said Aria; "but even if you think so, there is no 
reason why your clock should go wrong at night 
when so many people can hear it because of the 

"' Ah, me ! " said the cobbler, " I do not object 
to the clock being as right as you please in the 
night ; but when my day's work is done, I so desire 
to go home to my supper, that I often forget to put 
the clock right, or to set it going if it is stopped. 



Vol. XV. — 13. 




But so many things stop at night — such as the day 
itself — and so many things then go wrong — such 
as the ways of evil-minded people — that 1 think 
you truly ought to pardon my poor clock." 

"Then you will not consent," said Aria, "to 
make it go right ? " 

" I will do that with all cheerfulness," answered 
the cobbler, pulling out a pair of waxed-ends with a 
great jerk, " as soon as I can make myself go right. 
The most important thing should always be done 
first ; and, surely, 1 am more important than a 
clock ! " And he smiled with great good humor. 

Aria knew that it would of no use to stand there 
any longer and talk with this cobbler. Turning 
to go, she said : 

" When I bring you shoes to mend, you shall 
finish them by my clock, and not by yours." 

" That will 1, my good little Aria," said the 
cobbler, heartily. " They shall be finished by any 
clock in town, and five minutes before the hour, or 
no payment." 

Aria now walked on until she came to the bridge 
over the river. It was a long, covered structure, 
and by the entrance sat the bridge-keeper. 

" Do you know, sir," said she, " that the clock 
at this end of your bridge does not keep the same 
time as the one at the other end ? They are not 
so very different, but 1 have noticed that this one 
is always done striking at least two minutes before 
the other begins." 

The bridge-keeper looked at her with one eye, 
which was all he had. 

" You are as wrong as anybody can be," said he. 
" I do not say anything about the striking, because 
my ears are not now good enough to hear the clock 
at the other end when I am near this one ; but I 
know they both keep the same time. I have often 
looked at this clock and have then walked to the 
other end of the bridge, and have found that the 
clock there was exactly like it." 

Aria looked at the poor old man, whose legs were 
warmly swaddled on account of his rheumatism, 
and said : 

'■ But it must take you a good while to walk to 
the other end of the bridge ! " 

" Out upon you ! " cried tlie bridge-keeper. " I 
am not so old as that yet ! I can walk there in no 
time ! " 

Aria now crossed the bridge and went a short 
distance along a country road until she came to the 
great stone house known as Vongereau. This 
belonged to a rich family who seldom came there, 
and the place was in charge of an elderly man who 
was the brother of Aria's mother. When his niece 
was shown into a room on the ground floor, which 
served for his parlor and his office, he was very 
glad to see her ; and while Aria was having some- 

thing to eat and drink after her walk, the two had 
a pleasant chat. 

" 1 came this time. Uncle Anton," she said, 
'• not only to see you, but to tell you that the great 
clock in your tower does not keep good time." 

Uncle Anton looked at her a little surprised. 

" How do you know that, my dear ? " he said. 

Then Aria told him how she had lain awake in 
the early morning and had heard the striking of 
the difterent clocks. '" If you wish to make it right," 
said she, " I can give you the proper time, for I 
have brought my own little clock with me." 

She was about to take her rose-clock out of her 
basket, when her uncle motioned to her not to do so. 

" Let me tell you something," said he. " The 
altering of the time of day, which you speak of 
so lightly, is a very serious matter, which should 
be considered with all gravity. If you set back a 
clock, even as little as ten minutes, you add that 
much to the time that has passed. The hour 
which has just gone by has been made seventy 
minutes long. Now, no human being has the right 
to add anything to the past, nor to make hours 
longer than they were originally made. And, 
on the other hand, if you set a clock forward even 
so little as ten minutes, you take away that much 
from the future, and you make the coming hour 
only fifty minutes long. Now, no human being has 
a right to take anything away from the future or to 
make the hours shorter than they were originally 
intended to be. 1 desire, my dear niece, that you 
will earnestly think over what I have said, and I 
am sure that you will then see for yourself how un- 
wise and even culpable it would be to trifle with 
the tength of the hours which make up our day. 
And now, Aria, let us talk of other things." 

And so they talked of other things until Aria 
thought it was time to go. She saw there was 
something wrong in her uncle's reasoning, although 
she could not tell exactly what it was. and thinking 
about it, she slowly returned to the town. As she 
approached the house of the little old lady with 
white hair, she concluded to stop and speak to her 
about her clock. " She will surely be willing to 
alter that," said Aria, " for it is so very much out 
of the way." 

The old lad\- knew who Aria was, and received 
her very kindly ; but when she heard why the 
young girl had come to her, she flew into a passion. 

" Never, since I was born," she said, " have I 
been spoken to like this ! My great-grandfather 
lived in this house before me : that clock was good 
enough for him ! My grandfather lived in this 
house before me ; that clock was good enough for 
him ! My father and mother lived in this house 
before me ; that clock was good enough for them I 
I was born in this house ; have always lived in it ; 



and expect to die in it ; that clock is good enough 
for me ! I heard its strokes when I was but a 
little child ; I hope to hear them at my last hour ; 
and sooner than raise my hand against the clock of 
my ancestors, and the clock of my whole life, I 
would cut off that hand ! " 

Some tears came into Aria's eyes ; she was a 
little frightened. " I hope you will pardon me, 
good madam," she said, " for, truly, I did not wish 
to offend you. Nor did I think that your clock is 
not a good one. I only meant that you should 
make it better ; it is nearly an hour out of the 

The sight of Aria's tears cooled the anger of the 
little old lady with white hair. " Child," she said, 
" you do not know what you are talking about, and 
I forgive you. But remember this : never ask 
persons as old as I am to alter the principles which 
have always made clear to them what they should 
do, or the clocks which have always told them when 
they should do it. " 

And, kissing Aria, she bade her good-bye. 

" Principles may last a great while without alter- 
ing," thought Aria, as she went away, " but I am 
sure it is very different with clocks." 

The poor girl now felt a good deal discouraged. 

" People don't seem to care whether their clocks 
are right or not," she said to herself, "and if they 
don't care, I am sure it is of no use for me to tell 
them about it. If even one clock could be made 
to go properly, it might help to make the people of 
Rondainc care to know exactly what time it is. 
Now, there is that iron donkey; if he would but 
kick at the right hour, it would be an excellent 
thing, for he kicks so hard that he is heard all over 
the town." 

Determined to make this one more effort, Aria 
walked quickly to the town-building at the top of 
which was the clock with the iron donkey. This 
building was a sort of museum ; it had a great 
many curious things in it, and it was in charge of 
a very ingenious man who was learned and skillful 
in various ways. 

When Aria had informed the superintendent ot 
the museum why she had come to him, he did not 
laugh at her, nor did he get angry. He was ac- 
customed to giving earnest consideration to matters 
of this sort, and he listened attentively to all that 
Aria had to say. 

"You must know," he said, "that our iron 
donkey is a very complicated piece of mechanism. 
Not only must he kick out the hours, but five 
minutes before doing so he must turn his head 
around and look at the bell behind him ; and then 
when he has done kicking he must put his head 
back into its former position. All this action re- 
quires a great many wheels and cogs and springs 

and levers, and these can not be made to move 
with absolute regularity. When it is cold, some of 
his works contract ; and when it is warm, they 
expand, and there are other reasons why he is very 
likely to lose or gain time. At noon on every 
bright day I set him right, being able to get the 
correct time from a sun-dial which stands in the 
court-yard. But his works, which I am sorry to 
say are not well made, are sure to get a great 
deal out of the way before I set him again." 

" Then, if there are several cloudy or rainy days 
together, he goes very wrong indeed," said Aria. 

"Yes, he truly does," replied the superin- 
tendent, "and I am sorry for it. But there is no 
way to remedy his irregularities except for me to 
make him all over again at my own expense, and 
that is something I can not afford to do. The 
clock belongs to the town, and I am sure the citi- 
zens will not be willing to spend the money neces- 
sary for a new donkey-clock ; for, so far as I know, 
every person but yourself is perfectly satisfied with 
this one." 

" I suppose so," said Aria, with a sigh ; " but it 
really is a great pity that every striking-clock in 
Rondaine should be wrong ! " 

" But how do you know they all are wrong?" 
asked the superintendent. 

" Oh, that is easy enough," said Aria. " When 
I lie awake in the early morning, when all else is 
very still, I listen to their striking, and then I look 
at my own rose-clock to see what time it really is." 

" Your rose-clock ? " said the superintendent. 

"This is it," said Aria, opening her basket and 
taking out her little clock. 

The superintendent took it into his hands and 
looked at it attentively, both outside and inside. 
And then, still holding it, he stepped out into the 
court-yard. When in a few moments he returned, 
he said : 

" I have compared your clock with my sun- 
dial, and find that it is ten minutes slow. I also 
see that, like the donkey-clock, its works are not 
adjusted in such a way as to be unaffected by heat 
and cold." 

" My — clock — ten — minutes — slow ! " ex- 
claimed Aria, with wide-open eyes. 

"Yes," said the superintendent, "that is the 
case to-day, and on some days it is, probably, a 
great deal too fast. Such a clock as this — which 
is a very ingenious and beautiful one — ought fre- 
quently to be compared with a sun-dial or other 
correct time-keeper, and set to the proper hour. 
I see it requires a peculiar key with which to set 
it. Have you brought this with you ?" 

"No, sir," said Aria; "I did not suppose it 
would be needed." 

"Well, then," said the superintendent, "you 



can set it forward ten minutes when you reach 
home ; and if to-morrow morning you compare the 
other clocks with it, I think you will find that not 
all of them are wrong." 

Aria sat quiet for a moment, and then she said : 
" I think 1 shall not care any more to compare the 
clocks of Rondainc with my little rose-clock. If 
the people arc satisfied with their own clocks, 
whether they are fast or slow, and do not desire 
to know exactly when Christmas Day begins, I can 
do nobody any good by listening to the different 
strikings and then looking at my own little clock 
with a night-lamp by it." 

"Especially," said the superintendent, with a 
smile, "'when you are not sure that your rose- 
clock is right. But if you will bring here your 
little clock and your key on any day when the sun 
is shining, I will set it to the time shadowed on 
the sun-dial, or show you how to do it yourself." 

"Thank you very much," said Aria; and she 
took her leave. 

As she walked home, she lifted the lid of her 
basket and looked at her little rose-clock. " To 
think of it!" she said. "That you should be 
sometimes too fast and sometimes too slow ! And, 
worse than that, to think that some of the other 

clocks have been right and you have been wrong ! 
But I do not feel like altering you to-day. If you 
go fast sometimes and slow sometimes, you must 
be right sometimes, and one of these days when I 
take you to be compared with the sun-dial, per- 
haps you will not have to be altered so much." 

Aria went to bed that night quite tired with her 
long walks, and when she awoke it was broad day- 
light. " 1 do not know," she said to herself, " ex- 
actly when Christmas began, but I am very sure 
that the happy day is here." 

" Do you lie awake in the morning as much as 
you used to?" asked Aria's mother a few weeks 
after the Christmas holidays. 

"No, mother dear," said Aria; "1 now sleep 
with one of my windows shut, and I am no longer 
awakened by that chilly feeling which used to 
come to me in the early morning, when 1 would 
draw the bed-covers close about me, and think how 
wrong were the clocks of Rondaine." 

And the little rose-clock never went to be com- 
pared with the sun-dial. " Perhaps you are right 
now," Aria would say to her clock each day when 
the sun shone, " and I will not take you until some 
time when 1 feel very sure that you are wrong." 






By Maria I. Hammond. 

"Tick TOCK ! tick tock ! " 
Says the clock — " half-past three." 
"Tick tock! tick tock!" 
" Half-past three " still we see I 

It must be the hands are caught, 
That is why it tells us naught, 
Tho' it ticks and ticks along 
As if there were nothing wrong! 
"Tick tock!" 

"Tick tock! tick tock! " 
Many a word, many a word, — 

' ' Tick tock ! tick tock ! "— 
Just as useless, I have heard. 

These — the folks who tell us naught — 
Ah ! perhaps their hands arc caught ! 
'T is the busy ones that know 
Something worth the telling. — So 
"Tick tock! tick tock ! " 


By Richard Malcolm Johnston. 

Mr. TempletON resided about four miles from 
the village, near the great wagon thoroughfare 
leading eastward to Augusta, the market town of 
middle Georgia, situated on the Savannah River. 

At this time he had an only son, Baldwin, about 
whose education he was becoming somewhat solic- 
itous, as the boy, being only seven years old, was 
too young to go alone to the country school, a mile 
and a half distant. After due consideration of 
several other plans, it was understood that he should 
be taught in books by his mother during what 
leisure she might get from house affairs, and out- 
side become more than hitherto a companion of 
his father, in the hope of getting occasional oral 
instruction that might be wholesome. 

The boy ever afterward looked back to this 
period, not only with much fondness, but with much 
gratitude that such had been his first tuition and 
that it had begun so early. 

His mother, more pious than her husband, pos- 
sessed a lower gift of instruction. She taught 
mainly by rote and the rules of schools and books ; 
while the father gave not set lessons or lectures, 
and often when he taught the best, it was not 
understood by his son, perhaps not always by him- 
self, that he was intending to teach. One instance 
of this I learned, and the recollection of it has done 
me, I believe, good service. 

In those times no railroads were in middle Geor- 
gia, and the roads in that region, with its red, stiff 
soil, were often rough, even in summer-time ; so 
much so, that between the villages were occasion- 
ally country taverns. Besides these, most country 
gentlemen who dwelt near the public road were 
accustomed to entertain over night belated trav- 
elers and their beasts. I can well remember when 
it was considered uncharitable to refuse shelter to a 
wayfaring man, unless it was not too late for him 
to reach before nightfall the village or the nearest 
inn. Mr. Templeton, although it was generally 
disagreeable, because interfering with the privacy 
of his family, never refused admittance to such 
comers, except when a denial seemed necessary. 
Country children liked such visitors, having so few 
opportunities to see new faces and hear new voices. 
Besides, they had a relish for riding travelers' 
horses to the spring for water. 

Among those who usually stopped with the 

Templetons was a middle-aged man named Brown. 
He resided, so he said, near the Savannah River, 
and he claimed to have a brother in good circum- 
stances in one ot the counties about three days' 
travel westward, his own home being at about that 
distance east. To this brother he had been paying 
semi-annual visits for several years, always stopping 
for a night, going and returning, with the Temple- 
tons. He was poor and rheumatic. He rode a 
poor horse, which slowly and with much difficulty 
bore him, and carried a pair of coarse cotton sad- 
dle-bags, always much soiled. Baldwin used to 
wonder how it could be that so poor a man and so 
poor a horse managed to travel so many miles forth 
and back twice a year. 

Mr. Brown was so uninteresting a companion 
that it was difficult to hold any conversation with 
him, even upon the subject of his infirmities. He 
usually sat with the family for an hour or two after 
supper, listening with moderate interest to their 
chatterings ; and then — yet never until after the 
suggestion had been made by one or the other 
of his hosts — retired to bed. Poor Mr. Brown, 
as he was called by the family, had become as 
well known there as such a man could be, and 
it is probable that in the visits of no other trav- 
eler was there ever less variety. The scene after 
breakfast next morning had been nearly the very 
same for years. When his horse was brought from 
the lot and hitched by the gate, the following dia- 
logue took place : 

Mr. Brown. — 1 think I '11 be a-travelin'. What's 
my bill .' 

Mr. Templeton. — One dollar, Mr. Brown. 

Mr. Brown. — I '11 pay you when I come by this 
way ag'in. Will that suit you ? 

Mr. Templeton. — That will do just as well; I 
can wait. 

Mr. Brown. — Well, a good-mornin' to you. 

Mr. Templeton. — Good-morning, Mr. Brown. 
I hope you '11 have a safe journey. 

They shook hands, a ceremony Mr. Brown 
omitted with the others, slightly nodding a good- 
bye to them as he turned to depart. 

Baldwin had been present at several of these 
leave-takings. After the departure, one day, he 
asked his father if Mr. Brown had ever paid him 
for a night's entertainment. 



" No, he never has," answered Mr. Templcton. 

" Do you beheve he ever will, Father ? " 

"I do not." 

" He is a very poor man, is n't he ?" 

" He must be ; and he is sickly besides." 

After musing some moments, Baldwin asked: 

" Well, Father, if he is so poor and sickly, what 
makes you charge him for staying all night. Do 
you want him to pay you ? " 

The father looked down upon his son, smiled, 
and said : 

" Let us take a walk." 

They went into the orchard ; for it was in the 
spring. Walking slowly along, Mr. Templeton 
said : 

" Baldwin, why did you ask if I wanted Mr. 
Brown to pay for his night's lodging?" 

" Because he looks like such a poor man, as 
you said he was, and sickly too." 

" I did, and he shows for himself." 

" Well, Father, if he is so poor, and sickly be- 
sides, I — " but Baldwin could not elaborate the 
idea that was in his mind. 

" You mean to say," suggested Mr. Templeton, 
" that if you were in my place, such a man as Mr. 
Brown might stay the night at your house without 
paying or being asked to pay anything. Is that 

Baldwin answered yes. 

"Ah, ha! Now I see, my boy, that I ought, 
before now, to have explained to you my conduct 
with Mr. Brown. I am glad that you are begin- 
ning to notice such things. No, I did not, and 
never did wish him to pay me anything. He 
has been coming by to spend a night with us 
four times a year for several years. He always 
asks me for his bill, and I always answer that it is 
a dollar. He never pays, and I never wish him to 
pay. He always promises to pay, and he probably 
believes, every time he is here, that perhaps he will 
be able to pay the next time he comes. At least 
he hopes so, I doubt not. Now, this hope that he 
will be less poor some day is a good, a great thing 
for him. But for that hope, sickly as he is. the 
probabilities are that he would have died before 
now ; whereas, having that hope makes him feel 
that he is able to get upon his poor horse and travel 
about like other persons who are strong and well. 
And, as you see, he actually does so, not so fast, 
and not so far as many others ; but fast enough, he 
thinks, and indeed a great distance even for men 
in good health. This hope, and the exercise he 
takes, and the change, perhaps, tend to make him 
forget sometimes that he is poor and sickly. Don't 
you see what a great thing such a hope is to 
such a man ?" 

Baldwin thought he did, and he said so. 

" Well," resumed his father, "no person ought 
to deprive him of it, if he can help it. Now, if you 
had a house, and Mr. Brown were to come to it 
and lodge for a night, and on leaving it the next 
morning were to ask what he must pay, I suppose 
you would answer, ' Nothing.' Is it not so ? Yes. 
But do you not perceive that such an answer would 
be showing him that you had noticed how poor he 
was, that you had no thought that he ever would 
be in better condition ? And so you mig'nt weaken 
this hope which is now such a support to him. I 
do not say it would, but it might. This is one 
thing that we should not do if we can avoid it, and 
at the same time not be guilty of deceit. I jievcr 
say to Mr. Brown that I believe that he will ever 
be any other sort of man than a poor one. That 
would be wrong, because it would be false. But 
as I believe that he hopes, and that he may ex- 
pect, to be in a better way sometime ; and as this 
hope docs him good ; and moreover, as / can not 
foresee what Providence, who gives and who takes 
away, may do for him before he dies, I simply 
try to show, when he is under my roof, that I 
respect him as I respect any other man, who, when 
he is here, does nothing that is wrong. And I do 
respect him as much as I respect any man who is 
not better than he is. When he is about to go 
away, and asks for his bill, I answer him as I an- 
swer others. With one like him this is the best 
way, it seems to me, in which I can show to him 
that he has the respect which I feel. Although he 
docs not pay the bill, I have little doubt that he in- 
tends and hopes to do so some time or other. He 
sees that I am satisfied with his promise, and this 
may serve to make him still more hopeful. Do 
you see, sir, do you see?" and he laid his hand 
heavily yet fondly on the boy's shoulder. 

Baldwin was satisfied, even pleased, and he sup- 
posed that the subject was now dismissed. They 
walked among the apple-trees, the elder occasion- 
ally subduing a redundant bud, or placing a prop 
to a young tree that the March winds had bent. 
After a few minutes, he turned suddenly and said : 

"Baldwin, suppose you were Mr. Brown." 
Baldwin shuddered, but only momentarily. 

"Yes," continued his father, "suppose you 
were a poor, sickly man, named Mr. Brown. Sup- 
pose you, like this one, were to be traveling in order 
to visit a brother who was well to do. For the 
poor, as a general thing, are proud of their wealthy 
relatives. It is often no matter how they are 
treated by them, and I rather suspect that this 
poor man gets little help from his relatives ; for I 
think that I have noticed that he is usually more 
sad on the returning than on the outgoing jour- 
ney. But suppose you hoped some day to be in 
as easy fortune as your brother, or at least in bet- 




ter fortune than now. Suppose then that you had 
spent a night at a gentleman's liousc, and that, 
when you were about to proceed on your travels, 
he were to say to you : 

"'Mr. Brown, your bill is nothing, sir; you 
need not pay me anything. You are so poor that 
I know you can not afford to pa\-. You are too 
sickly to work, and of course there is no probabil- 
ity that you will ever be in better circumstances 
than you now are. Therefore you need never ask 
me what your bill is, or let the thought of it 
trouble you. I never charge such a man as you 
anything. Come always to my house when you 
are traveling this way (that is, if you should ever 
find yourself able to make the trip again) and you 
will always find a welcome for jourself and your 
poor horse. But please do not ask to pay what 
I could not feel, as a conscientious and charitable 
man, it was right to accept.' 

" How would that sound in your ears, Mr. 
Brown ? " 

Mr. Templeton looked down upon his son's 
face, and was pleased to notice his indignation 
against his imaginary host. Then, before tlie boy 
could put into words the feeling which was suffi- 
ciently shown by his expression, the father resumed: 

" But suppose the gentleman was not quite so 
rude as that — though some good, kind-hearted men 
talk in just that style, without having any notion 
of its rudeness. Suppose he were to say nothing 
about your poverty or your poor health, but you 
could see that he noticed both, and your torn and 
soiled clothes, your stiff, slow-moving limbs and the 
wearing sadness upon your face. Suppose then 
that the fact that he saw all this made you lose 
a part of the hope you had been indulging for 
better times to come to you, because it was plain 
to you that, in his opinion, such a hope was ut- 
terly vain. 

" Suppose, again, that when you should ask him 
for your bill, and get for answer that there was 
none, you were sure that this answer was given 
because of your poverty which showed for itself in 
your every look and action. Once more. Sup- 
pose, when you should promise to pay on your 
next visit, you were made by the gentleman's 
manner to feel that he believed not only that you 
would never pay the bill but probably would not 
live to come there any more. What then, Mr. 
Brown ? " 

Tears were now in the boy's eyes. When his 
father saw them, some came into his own. After 
a pause, he thus concluded : 

" You see, dear Baldwin, that although it is our 
duty to be kind to the poor, yet we should take 
some pains in learning hoiv to be so. The kindness 
of some men to the poor tends to make them better. 

as well as happier. That of others tends to make 
them evil-disposed and to add to the bitterness of 
their sufferings. The difference is this : some men 
have another feeling in addition to pity. This feel- 
ing is — Delicacy. Remember that word, my boy, 
and study it, and try to find out for yourself all 
that it means." 

After a brief pause, during which the boy walked 
thoughtfully and in silence beside his father, Mr. 
Templeton said : 

"Now there 's anotherside to this case, Baldwin. 
I dare say you don't think it exactly right in Mr. 
Brown to be going more and more into debt, 
especially to strangers, when the chances seem 
so little that he can ever pay ; or at least you 
think he might behave as if he were thankful for 
being so treated. It doesn't look quite honest, 
eh ? Aha ! I thought so. 

" But we must suppose that he hopes, and even 
expects, to be able at some time, perhaps far in 
the future, to pay all he owes. I have not a doubt 
of this; for poor as he is, and silent, I think I have 
seen in him a great deal of the sort of character 
that makes an upright man. As for thanks, I've 
come to believe that not always do those_/iW them 
the most who are the quickest and the freest to 
say them. Besides, we must not expect always to 
find among the poor and the suffering the delicacy 
that I 've just told you about. 

" Our good Lord, who loves the poor so much, 
does not demand of them the same delicate sense 
of propriety as of those in more favored circum- 
stances. He knows how much pain and how much 
failure of many sorts this would cause. My ac- 
quaintance with the Bible, I am ashamed to say, 
is much less familiar than your mother's. But my 
recollection is that not many instances of the say- 
ing of thanks by the poor occur in it. For exam- 
ple, there is no record that the traveler who had 
fallen among thieves thanked the good Samaritan 
who relieved him ; and of the ten lepers who were 
healed, only one, and he a stranger, returned to 
thank our Savior. 

" Yet He did not chide the others, but said 
merely, — ' Where are the nine ? There are not 
found that returned to give glory to God save this- 

" Indeed, the good Lord often keeps from His 
poor the delicacy that would make their lot harder 
to bear. As for poor Mr. Brown, I am satisfied 
that he is more thankful than he seems, not only 
for the very small favors that I have shown him, but 
for my confidence that he honestly intends and ex- 
pects^ to repay me. Come, now ; let us go back to. 
your mother." 

Mr. Brown did not come again. 

Late in the fall they heard that he was dead. 



20 r 

Some weeks after, one of the neighbors on re- 
turning from Augusta, whither he had gone witli a 
load of cotton, left at the Templetons' a tiny sleigh, 
and a shuttle for Mrs. Templcton, and a hickory- 
cane, rudely but elaborately wrought. These had 
been handed to him by one of Mr. Brown's family, 
who said that on his death-bed Mr. Brown had re- 
quested that they should be sent with the message 

that he had always expected to be able some day 
to repay all the kindness of the family to him; but, 
that as he was disappointed, he hoped the good 
Lord would make it up to them in some wa)-. 

" My parents shed tears," said Baldwin, many 
years afterward, "on receiving these bequests, 
which they kept as long as they lived. I have 
the three gifts yet." 

'we and our dollies." (photographed from life.) 



By Nora Perry. 

With restless step of discontent, 
Day after day he fretting went 
Along the old accustomed ways 
That led to easeful length of days. 

But far beyond the fragrant shade 
Of orange-groves his glances strayed 
To where the white horizon line 
Caught from the sea its silvery shine. 

He knew the taste of the salt spray, 
He knew the wind that blew that way: 
Ah, once again to mount and ride 
Upon that pulsing ocean tide — 

To find new lands of virgin gold, 
To wrest them from the savage hold. 
To conquer with the sword and brain 
Fresh fields and fair for royal Spain ! 

This was the dream of wild desire 
That set his gallant heart on fire, 
And stirred with feverish discontent 
That soul for nobler issues meant. 

Sometimes his children's laughter brought 
A thrill that checked his restless thought ; 
Sometimes a voice more tender yet 
Would soothe the fever and the fret. 

Thus day by day, until one day 
Came news that in the harbor lay 
A ship bound outward to explore 
The treasures of that western shore. 

Which bold adventurers as yet 
Had failed to conquer or forget : 
'•'Yet where they failed, and failing died. 
My will shall conquer ! " Balboa cried. 



But when on Darien's shore he stept, 
And fast and far his vision swept, 
He saw before him, white and still. 
The Andes moclcing at his will. 

Then like a flint he set his face : 
Let others falter from their place, 
His hand and foot, his sturdy soul 
Should seek and gain that distant goal ! 

With speech like this he fired the land, 
And gathered to his bold command 
A troop of twenty score or more, 
To follow where he led before. 

They followed him day after day 
O'er burning lands where ambushed lay 
The waiting savage in his lair ; 
And fever poisoned all the air. 

But like a sweeping wind of flame 
A conqueror through all he came : 
The savage fell beneath his hand, 
Or led him on to seek the land 

That richer yet for golden gain 
Stretched out beyond the mountain chain. 
Steep after steep of rough ascent 
They followed, followed, worn and spent, 

Until at length they came to where 

The last peak lifted near and fair ; 

Then Balboa turned and waved aside 

His panting troops: " Rest here," he cried ; 

' And wait for me." And with a tread 
Of trembling haste, he quickly sped 

Along the trackless height, alone 

To seek, to reach, his mountain throne. 

Step after step he mounted swift ; 

The wind blew down a cloudy drift ; 

From some strange source he seemed to hear 

The music of another sphere. 

Step after step ; the cloud-winds blew 

Their blinding mists, then through and through 

Sun-cleft, they broke, and all alone 

He stood upon his mountain throne. 

Before him spread no paltry lands. 
To wrest with spoils from savage hands ; 
But, fresh and fair, an unknown world 
Of mighty sea and shore unfurled 

Its wondrous scroll beneath the skies. 
Ah, what to this the flimsy prize 
Of gold and lands for which he came 
With hot ambition's sordid aim ! 

Silent he stood with streaming eyes 
In that first moment of surprise, 
Then on the mountain-top he bent, 
This conqueror of a continent, 

In wordless ecstasy of prayer, — 
Forgetting in that moment there. 
With Nature's God brought face to face. 
All vainer dreams of pomp and place. 

Thus to the world a world was given. 
Where lesser men had vainly striven, 
And striving died, — this gallant soul, 
Divinely guided, reached the goal. 

He A/veis Gt generous, greind eincL oorgeous Millionaire 
AA/ith ei hecirt ©.s overflowing eis his hair. 
His neiture vveis tolreeil 
Everv hoy upon the street » 
AA/Kich macle ^/\pple-^A^o men 
Ihrivc beyond compare . 

By Mary E. Wilkins. 

It was afternoon recess at No. 4 District School, 
in Warner. There was a heavy snowstorm ; so 
every one was in the warm schooh'oom, except a 
few adventurous spirits who were tumbhng about 
in the snowdrifts out in the yard, getting their 
clothes wet and preparing themselves for chidings 
at home. Their shrill cries and shouts of laughter 
floated into the schoolroom, but the small group 
near the stove did not heed them at all. There 
were five or six little girls and one boy. The 
girls, with the exception of Jenny Brown, were 
trim and sweet in their winter dresses and neat 
school-aprons ; they perched on the desks and the 
arms of the settee with careless grace, like birds. 
Some of them had their arms linked. The one 
boy lounged against the blackboard. His dark, 
straight-profiled face was all aglow as he talked. 
His big brown eyes gazed now soberly and im- 
pressively at Jenny, then gave a gay dance in 
the direction of the other girls. 

" Yes, it does — hones//" said he. 

The other girls nudged one another softly ; but 
Jenny Brown stood with her innocent, solemn eyes 
fixed upon Earl Munroe's face, drinking in every 

" You ask anybody who knows," continued Earl ; 
" ask Judge Barker, ask — the minister — " 

" Oh ! " cried the little girls; but the boy shook 
his head impatiently at them. 

"Yes," said he; "you just go and ask Mr. 
Fisher to-morrow, and you 'II see what he '11 tell 
you. Why, look here," — Earl straightened him- 
self and stretched out an arm like an orator, — "it 's 
nothing more than reasonable that Christmas-trees 
grow wild with the presents all on 'cm ! What sense 
would there be in 'em if they did n't, I 'd like to 
know? They grow in different places, of course; 
but these around here grow mostly on the mount- 
ain over there. They come up every spring, 
and they all blossom out about Christmas-time, 
and folks go hunting for them to give to the 

children. Father and Ben are over on the mount- 
ain to-day — " 

" Oh, oh ! " cried the little girls. 

" I mean, I guess they are," amended Earl, try- 
ing to put his feet on the boundary-line of truth. 
" I hope they '11 find a full one." 

Jenny Brown had a little, round, simple face; 
her thin brown hair was combed back and braided 
tightly in one tiny braid tied with a bit of shoe- 
string. She wore a nondescript gown, which 
nearly trailed behind, and showed in front her 
little, coarsely shod feet, which toed-in helplessly. 
The gown w-as of a faded green color ; it was scal- 
loped and bound around the bottom, and had some 
green ribbons-bows down the front. It was, in fact, 
the discarded polonaise of a benevolent woman, who 
aided the poor substantially but not tastefully. 

Jenny Brown was eight, and small for her age, — 
a strange,, gentle, ignorant little creature, never 
doubting the truth of what she was told, which 
sorely tempted the other children to impose upon 
her. Standing there in the schoolroom that 
stormy recess, in the midst of that group of wiser, 
richer, mostly older girls, and that one handsome, 
mischievous boy, she loelieved every word she 

This was her first term at school, and she had 
never before seen much of other children. She 
had lived her eight years all alone at home with 
her mother, and she had never been told about 
Christmas. Her mother had other things to think 
about. She was a dull, spiritless, reticent wo- 
man, who had lived through much trouble. She 
worked, doing washings and cleanings, like a poor 
feeble machine that still moves but has no interest 
in its motion. Sometimes the Browns had almost 
enough to eat, at other times they half starved. 
It was half-starving time just then ; Jenny had not 
had enough to eat that day. 

There was a pinched look on the little face up- 
turned toward Earl Munroe's. 




Earl's words gained authority by coming from 
himself. Jenny had always regarded him with 
awe and admiration. It was much that he should 
speak at all to her. 

Earl Munroe was quite the king of this little dis- 
trict school. He was the son of the wealthiest man 
in town. No other boy was so well dressed, so 
gently bred, so luxuriously lodged and fed. Earl 
himself realized his importance, and had at times 
the loftiness of a young prince in his manner. 
Occasionally, some independent urchin would bris- 
tle with democratic spirit, and tell him to his face 
that he was "stuck up," and he had n't so rrvuch 
more to be proud of than other folks ; that his 
grandfather was n't anything but an old ragman ! 

Then Earl would wilt. Arrogance in a free 
country is likely to have an unstable foundation. 
Earl's tottered at the mention of his paternal 
grandfather, who had given the first impetus to 
the family fortune by driving a tin-cart about the 
country. Moreover, the boy was really pleasant 
and generous-hearted, and had no mind, in the 
long run, for lonely state and disagreeable haughti- 
ness. He enjoyed being lordly once in a while, 
that was all. 

He did now, with Jenny — he eyed her with 
a gay condescension, which would have greatly 
amused his tin-peddler grandfather. 

Soon the bell rung, and they all filed to their 
seats, and the lessons were begun. 

After school was done that night. Earl stood in 
the door when Jenny passed out. 

"Say, Jenny," he called, "when are you going 
over on the mountain to find the Christmas-tree ? 
You 'd better go pretty soon, or they '11 be gone." 

" That 's so ! " chimed in one of the girls. 
" You 'd better go right off, Jenny." 

She passed along, her face shyly dimpling with 
her little innocent smile, and said nothing. She 
would never talk much. 

She had quite a long walk to her home. Pres- 
ently, as she was pushing weakly through the new 
snow, Earl went flying past her in his father's 
sleigh, with the black horses and the fur-capped 
coachman. He never thought of asking her to 
ride. If he had, he would not have hesitated a 
second before doing so. 

Jenny, as she waded along, could see the mount- 
ain always before her. This road led straight to 
it, then turned and wound around its base. It had 
stopped snowing, and the sun was setting clear. 
The great white mountain was all rosy. It stood 
opposite the red western sky. Jenny kept her 
eyes fixed upon the mountain. Down in the valley- 
shadows, her little simple face, pale and colorless, 
gathered another kind of radiance. 

There was no school the next day, which was the 

one before Cirristmas. It was pleasant, and not 
very cold. Everybody was out ; the little village 
stores were crowded ; sleds trailing Christmas- 
greens went flying, people were hastening with 
parcels under their arms, their hands full. 

Jenny Brown also was out. She was climbing 
Franklin Mountain. The snowy pine-boughs bent 
so low that they brushed her head ; she stepped 
deeply into the untrodden snow, the train of her 
green polonaise dipped into it, and swept it along. 
And all the time she was peering through those 
white fairy columns and arches for — a Christmas- 

That night, the mountain had turned rosy, and 
faded, and the stars were coming out, when a fran- 
tic woman, panting, crying out now and then in her 
distress, went running down the road to the Mun- 
roe house. It was the only one between her own 
and the mountain. The woman rained some clat- 
tering knocks on the door — she could not stop for 
the bell. Then slie burst into the house, and threw 
open the dining-room door, crying out in gasps : 

" Hev you seen her? Oh, hev you? My Jen- 
ny 's lost ! She 's lost ! Oh, oh, oh ! They said 
they saw her comin' up this way, this mornin'. Hev 
you seen her, licv you ? " 

Earl and his father and mother were having tea 
there in the handsome oak-paneled dining-room. 
Mr. Munroe rose at once, and went forward, Mrs. 
Munroe looked with a pale face around her sil- 
ver tea-urn, and Earl sat as if frozen. He heard 
his father's soothing questions, and the mother's 
answers. She had been out at work all day : when 
she returned, Jenny was gone. Some one had 
seen her going up the road to the Munroes' that 
morning about ten o'clock. That was her only 

Earl sat there, and saw his mother draw the 
poor woman into the room and try to comfort 
her; he heard, with a vague understanding, his 
father order the horses to be harnessed immedi- 
ately; he watched him putting on his coat and hat 
out in the hall. 

When he heard the horses trot up the drive, 
he sprung to his feet. When Mr. Munroe opened 
the door. Earl, with his coat and cap on, was at 
his heels. 

"Why, you can't go. Earl!" said his father, 
when he saw him. " Go back at once." 

Earl was white and trembling. He half sobbed. 
" Oh, Father, 1 must go ! " said he. 

" Earl, be reasonable. You want to help, don't 
you, and not hinder ? " his mother called out of 
the dining-room. 

Earl caught hold of his father's coat. " Father 
— look here — I — I believe I know -where she is ! " 

Then his father faced sharply around, his mother 



and Jenny's stood listening in bewilderment, and 
Earl told his ridiculous, childish, and cruel little 
story. "I — did n't dream — she 'd really be — 
such a little ^goose as to — go," he choked out ; 
"but she must have, for" — with brave candor — 
" I know she believed every word I told her." 

It seemed a fantastic theory, yet a likely one. 
It would give method to the search, yet more 
alarm to the searchers. The mountain was a wide 
region in which to find one little child. 

Jenny's mother screamed out, "Oh, if she 's 

crawled downstairs and into the parlor, in the 
bay-window stood, like a gay mockery, the Christ- 
mas-tree. It was a quite small one that year, only 
for the family, — some expected guests had failed 
to come, — but it was well laden. After tea, the 
presents were to have been distributed. There 
were some for his father and mother, and some 
for the servants, but the bulk of them were fcr 

By and by, his mother, who had heard him 
come downstairs, peeped into the room, and saw 

AW (^' -,(,-.,- 


lost on the mountain, they '11 never find her ! 
They never will, they never will ! O Jenny, Jenny, 
Jenny ! " 

Earl gave a despairing glance at her, and bolted 
upstairs to his own room. His mother called 
pityingly after him ; but he only sobbed back, 
" Don't, Mother, — please ! " and kept on. 

The boy, lying face downward on his bed, cry- 
ing as if his heart would break, heard presently 
the church-bell clang out fast and furious. Then 
he heard loud voices down in the road, and the 
flurry of sleigh-bells. His father had raised the 
alarm, and the search was organized. 

After a while, Earl arose, and crept over to the 
window. It looked toward the mountain, which 
towered up, cold and white and relentless, like one 
of the ice-hearted giants of the old Indian tales. 
Earl shuddered, as he looked at it. Presently, he 

him busily taking his presents from the tree. Her 
heart sank with sad displeasure and amazement. 
She would not have believed that her bo)' could 
be so utterly selfish as to think of Christmas- 
presents then. 

But she said nothing. She stole away, and re- 
turned to poor Mrs. Brown, whom she was keeping 
with her; still she continued to think of it, all that 
long, terrible night, when they sat there waiting, 
listening to the signal-horns over on the mountain. 

Morning came at last, and Mr. Munroe with it. 
No success so far. He drank some coffee and was 
off again. That was C|uite early. An hour or two 
later, the breakfast-bell rung. Earl did not respond 
to it, so his mother went to the foot of the stairs 
and called him. There was a stern ring in her soft 
voice. All the time she had in mind his heartless- 
ness and greediness over the presents. When Earl 




did not answer, she went upstairs, and found that 
he was not in his room. Then she looked in the 
parlor, and stood staring in bewilderment. Earl 
was not there, but neither were the Christmas-tree 
and his presents, — they had vanished bodily ! 

Just at that moment Earl Munroe was hurrying 
down the road, and he was dragging his big sled, 
on which were loaded his Christmas 
presents and the Christmas-tree 
The top of the tree trailed in the 
snow, its branches spread over the 
sled on either side, and rustled. It 
was a heavy load, but Earl tugged 
manfully in an enthusiasm of re 
morse and atonement, — a fantastic, 
extravagant atonement, planned by 
that same fertile fancy which had 
invented that story for poor little 
Jenny, but instigated by all the good 
repentant impulses in the bo\ s 

On every one of those neat par 
eels, above his own name, was writ 
ten in his big, crooked, childish 
hand, "Jenny Brown, from — " Eail 
Munroe had not saved one Christ 
mas-present for himself. 

Pulling along, his cheeks brilliant, 
his eyes glowing, he met Maud 
Barker. She was Judge Barker's 
daughter, and the girl who :'. 
had joined him in advising 
Jenny to hunt on the mount- 
ain for the Christmas-tree. 

Maud stepped along, plac- 
ing her trim little feet with 
dainty precision ; she wore 
some new high-buttoned 
over-shoes. She also car- 
ried a new beaver muiif, but 
in one hand only. The 
other dangled mittenless at 
her side ; it was pink with 
cold, but on its third finger 
sparkled a new gold ring 
with a blue stone in it. 

•' Oh, Earl ! " she called 
out, " have they found Jenny 
Brown ? I was going up to 
your house to — Why, Earl 
Munroe, what have you got 
there ?" 

" I 'ni carrying my Christmas-presents and the 
tree up to Jenny's — so she '11 find 'em when she 
comes back," said the boy, flushing red. There 
was a little defiant choke in his voice. 

"Whv, what for?" 

"I rather think they belong to her, more 'n 
they do to me, after what 's happened." 
" Does your mother know ? " 
'■ No; she would n't care. She 'd think I was 
only doing what 1 ought." 

'• All of 'em ? " queried Maud, feebly. 
" You don't s'pose I 'd keep any back ? " 

Miud stood staring. It was 
be\ond her little philosophy. 

Earl was passing on, when 
1 thoUi^ht struck him. 

Si>, Maud, "he cried eager- 
1\ have n't you something 
you can put in? Girls' things 
mi^ht please her better, you 
1 now Some of mine are — 
rathei queer, I 'm afraid." 

\\ hat have you got ? " de- 
manded Maud. 

\\ ell, some of the things 

arc well enough. There 's a 

t of candy and oranges and 

figs and books ; there 's one by 

Jules Verne I guess she 'II 

ke but there 's a great 


big jack-knife, and — a brown velvet bicycle 

"Why, Earl Munroe ! what could she do with a 
bicycle suit ? " 

" I thought, maybe, she could rip the seatns to 



'em, an' sew 'em some way, an' get a basque cut, 
or something. Don't you s'pose she could ? " Earl 
asked, anxiously. 

"I don't know; her mother could tell," said 

" Well, I '11 hang it on, anyhow. Maud, have n't 
you anything to give her?" 

"I— don't know." 

Earl eyed her sharply. " Is n't that muff new ? " 


"And that ring?" 

Maud nodded. " She 'd be delighted with 'em. 
Oh, Maud, put 'em in ! " 

Maud looked at him. Her pretty mouth quiv- 
ered a little, some tears twinkled in her blue eyes. 

" I don't beUeve my mother would let me," fal- 
tered she. "You — come with me, and I'll ask 

"All right," said Earl, with a tug at his sled- 

He waited with his load in front of Maud's house 
until she came forth radiant, lugging a big basket. 
She had her last winter's red cashmere dress, a 
hood, some mittens, cake and biscuit, and nice 
slices of cold meat. 

" Mother said these would be much more suit- 
able for her," said Maud, with a funny little imita- 
tion of her mother's manner. 

Over across the street, another girl stood at the 
gate, waiting for news. 

" Have they found her ? " she cried ; "where are 
you going with all those things ? " 

Somehow, Earl's generous, romantic impulse 
spread like an epidemic. This little girl soon 
came flying out with her contribution ; then there 
were more — quite a little procession filed finally 
down the road to Jenny Brown's house. 

The terrible possibilities of the case never oc- 
curred to them. The idea never entered their heads 
that little, innocent, trustful Jenny might never 
come home to see that Christmas-tree which they 
set up in her poor home. 

It was with no surprise whatever that they saw, 
about noon, Mr. Munroe's sleigh, containing Jenny 
and her mother and Mrs. Munroe, drive up to the 

Afterward, they heard how a wood-cutter had 
found Jenny crying, over on the east side of the 
mountain, at sunset, and had taken her home with 
him. He lived five miles from the village, and 
was an old man, not able to walk so far that night 
to tell them of her safety. His wife had been very 
good to the child. About eleven o'clock, some of 
the searchers had met the old man plodding along 
the mountain-road with the news. 

They did not stop for this now. They shouted to 
Jenny to " come in, quick ! " They pulled her with 
soft violence into the room where they had been 
at work. Then the child stood with her hands 
clasped, staring at the Christmas-tree. All too far 
away had she been searching for it. The Christ- 
mas-tree grew not on the wild mountain-side, in the 
lonely woods, but at home, close to warm, loving 
hearts ; and that was where she found it. 

By Sydney Davre. 

A LIGHT little zephyr came flitting. 
Just breaking the morning repose. 

The rose made a bow to the lily. 
The lily she bowed to the rose. 

And then, in a soft little whisper. 
As faint as a perfume that blows ; 
" You are brighter than I," said the lily; 
" You are fairer than I," said the rose. 

Vol. XV.— 14, 


By Louise Herrick. 


tion of Black- 
wood might not 
have seemed an 
attractive place, 
to grown-up folk, 
in the spring of 
1865 ; but my broth- 
er Bruce and I, Nan- 
nie Burton, thought 
our quarters as good 
as any in Virginia. 
Of course it would 
have been pleasanter to 
have had enough to eat 
occasionally; but then we 
could scarcely remember 
the time when our single 
pone of corn-bread had not 
been cut into three as equal parts as though it 
were to illustrate an example in simple fractions, — 
one for each of us, Mother, Bruce, and me. And 
though some appetite might be left over, corn- 
bread never was. 

This was the time during the war when Confed- 
erate money had become so worthless that, as some 
one remarked, "you went to market with your 
money in a wheelbarrow, and brought some pro- 
visions back in your pocket-book." However, as 
we had little money and less market up here in 
the Blue Ridge mountains, we were saved this 
harrowing experience. In fact, Bruce and 1 had 
no harrowing experiences. We scampered about 
from morning until night on our tireless bare legs, 
always hungry, — which enabled us to relish not 
only our meals, but any articles of an eatable 
nature that fell into our hands. 

There was a tradition in the family that we once 
had white loaf-sugar every day of our lives ; and 
I could distinctly remember the time when sor- 
ghum, or " long sweetening," — its army name, — 
was an every-day affair. All this, however, in 
the spring of 1865, was a thing of the past — 
only a sweet memory. Our sorghum was so low 
in the barrel, that, when mother turned the spigot, 
only the faintest line of black syrup responded and 
dripped slowl)', reluctantly, into the little brown 
jug beneath. 

It amuses me to look back on my old self as I 
was in those days, and I think what an odd figure 
I must have been in my clothes of strictly home 
manufacure. My dress of homespun cotton had 
been woven by an old negro woman on our 
place; it was buttoned up behind, when buttoned 
at all, by a row of persimmon-seeds with holes 
drilled in them for eyelets. I had a hat (which at 
that time I conceived to be very beautiful) of plaited 
corn-shucks, just the shape of a rather deep bowl. 
The shape, however, was a matter of the smallest 
consequence, as it hung down my back by means 
of a leathern shoestring, except when mother was 
pleading with me about my complexion. My very 
short, very light hair hung in a frayed plait, down 
my back. 

Bruce's costume was, if anything, simpler than 
mine. It consisted of a shirt and trousers, made in 
one, of a piece of striped bed-ticking ; a row of 
persimmon-seed buttons followed the curve of his 
spine, and a small cap knitted of carpet-ravelings 
adorned his jolly little head. We wore neither 
shoes nor stockings, — my last pair of shoes, worth 
two hundred dollars in Confederate money, had friz- 
zled up from being left too near the kitchen fire. 

The greatest excitement we had in those days 
was the coming of the daily trains. I felt that mj' 
day was very incomplete if by any chance I missed 
being on the platform when the great mountain 
engines came thundering up the heavy grade past 
our house, and stopped at the Blackwood Station, 
a few hundred yards above. Our interest was in- 
creased when the trains began to bring provisions 
and ammunition up from along the railroad, to 
be stored for safe-keeping in the freight depot. 
I did not know there were so many barrels of 
sorghum or so many bolts of cloth in the whole 
world as were packed into that depot. I think the 
buttons impressed me most. It was with a sense 
of bitterness and shame that I remembered the 
time when I had felt proud of my persimmon- 
seeds. Then came barrels and barrels of gun- 
powder, and then bomb-shells. I was conscious 
of my bravery when I stood by, clutching my skirts 
with both hands, and saw these stores rolled up 
the inclined plane of logs into the depot. The men 
who brought the stores were mostly disabled Con- 
federates, a gloomy, untalkative set; but one big 



fellow, in a shirt made of an old plaid shawl, 
grumbled all the while he worked, and threw out 
such dark hints as to the nearness and terrors of 
the Yankee raiders, that a quick succession of 
creeps went down to the very soles of my bare feet. 

" It 's nothin' but foolishness, cartin' up all this 
truck here," he said. '" The Yankees are comin' 
here as fast as they kin, and wc '11 have to burn it 
up to keep them from gettin' it." 

However, the work went steadily on until the 
depot seemed likely to burst with fullness ; and 
then the trains came less often. A few men were 
left to guard the stores ; and a misty, rainy spell 
of weather drove us into the house for amuse- 

I had almost forgotten to mention the house, 
as it was where we were least apt to be, — and no 
wonder, for a more cheerless house it were hard to 
find. My father had built it before the war for a 
boys' school. It faced the track, which was so 
near that the windows rattled in their casements 
and the whole house quaked sympathetically with 
every passing train. It also showed interest in the 
freight depot, for it reared itself on its white front 
pillars and stared across the track at its neighbor 
planted there firm and stolid on four clumsy legs. 
The kitchen was much cozier than any other part 
of the house. Like most Virginia kitchens, it was 
a small log-cabin at the back of the house, where 
the cook lived and reigned supreme. Its low 
smoke-stained rafters and uneven earthen floor 
were lighted more b)- the great fire-place, where 
a whole tree burned as a single sacrifice, than by 
the small square window. 

One raw, rainy afternoon in March, I drew my 
stool back into one corner of the fire-place, buried 
my feet in the warm, caressing ashes, and, with the 
black pot-hooks hanging over my head on their 
sooty bar and the fire smoldering lazily in the 
opposite corner, felt myself ready for a good long 
afternoon with my rag doll, — a dear creature 
whose head had been re-covered and whose smile 
had been renewed at Christmas for the last three 
years. The last Christmas, a fine woolly wig of 
tanned sheepskin had been added to her many 
other charms. The only thing I would have 
altered about Peggy was her profile, which, to tell 
the truth, was a little disappointing. I was sitting 
thinking rather sadly of this, with Peggy grasped 
firmly between my knees, when the kitchen door 
opened, moving heavily inward on the earthen floor 
where it had worn for itself a smooth black groove, 
and Aunt Patsy, our cook, came in with her arms 
full of chips from the wood-pile. My heart sunk 
when I saw her, for she looked so glum that I was 
sure she would tell me to " g' long in de house." 
To my relief, however, she took no notice of me, 

but throwing her load into a corner near the fire- 
place, drew an old splint-bottom chair up to the 
fire. I watched her anxiously from my retired 
corner and ventured at last, very cautiously : 

" Is your rheumatism worse. Aunt Patsy ? " 

She looked up sternly from the fire where she 
had been gazing fixedly, and said : 

" Don' pester me, chile — I 'se stedyin'." 

I relapsed into silent contemplation of Peggy. 

After a long silence, and without moving. Aunt 
Patsy said in a deep, awe-inspiring tone : 

" Nannie, did you ever see a Yankee ? " 

"No-o," I said reluctantly; Aunt Patsy so sel- 
dom gave me a chance to tell her anything. 

" WuU," still gazing in the fire as if she were 
reading there what she said, " you 're gwine to 
see some mighty soon. Dey suttinly is tur'ble, 
dat dey is. Folks say dey 's got hoofs and horns." 
Then rocking herself back and forward in her 
chair, she continued, "I hear 'em comin' now" — 
raising her hand in solemn adjuration — " I hear 
de hoofs a-clatterin' ! " 

I sat very still and listened, very much fright- 
ened ; but as I could hear nothing, my courage 
returned. I longed to ask Aunt Patsy more about 
the Yankees, but she was "studying " again, and 
I did not dare interrupt her. As I sat pondering 
over her remarks, the door opened vehemently and 
Bruce ran in, the rain dripping from a shawl he 
wore over his head. 

"Nannie," he shouted, "Mother says she 
wants you, this minute ! " 

I jumped up, dropping Peggy in the ashes at 
my feet, and he and I ran out together, sharing 
the shawl. 

"What does she want, Bruce?" I asked anx- 

"I don't know," he said tantalizingly ; then, 
wagging his head significantly, "She says she 
wants you." 

What had I last done that was naughty? I 
tried hard to conjecture. I felt a wretched pre- 
monition of the gentle, grieved look with which 
Mother would soon meet me. I have often won- 
dered, since, how any child who so hated to be 
scolded could have deserved it as often as I did. 
Mother was not in her room when I entered, and 
did not come in for several minutes. My heart 
beat fast with a vague apprehension as I sat there 
with a queer sense of guilt upon me ; the big old 
clock on the mantel-piece tick-tacked ; and the 
green log on the andirons simmered and sent 
forth a sappy froth at its ends. At last Mother 
came in, looking very anxious and knitting as she 
came, — her gray knitting was never out of her 
hands in those days. 

"Nannie," she said very gravely, "I have 




heard that the Yankees are coming. They nray to the rescue ; and as he was carried by his yellow 

be here before night." legs through the bare house, the empty halls 

Then it was n't a " tallcing to " ; it was only the resounded with his squawks. We finally locked 

Yankees. My spirits went up many degrees. him in an unoccupied room. He shook himself 

"We must hide our things at once," she went and strutting about, uttered so loud and pompous 

on; " and you and Bruce must help." a "gobble-gobble," that we were sure he would 

We were all alert in a moment : nothing could attract the Yankees from miles around. 

1 1 '/. 

jyi ■ -•) 


have suited our tastes or capacities better. What 
a confusing scuffle it w-as, as we packed the little sil- 
ver we had left into a bandbox and dug a grave 
for it under the June apple-tree in the garden. 
Then we tried to catch Don Quixote, the big tur- 
key we had been saving for father's home-coming. 
His great wings were so strong that he nearly 
beat us to pieces when we ran him into a fence 
corner and tried to catch him. Aunt Patsy came 

"Put him in a dark closet, and then he'll be 
good," said Bruce, with the air of one who knew. 

Aunt Patsy took the suggestion ; and Don 
Quixote was so scared by the dark, that by the 
time Bruce had shut the door and turned the 
wooden button upon it, he was awed into silence. 

When we went downstairs to Mother's room, 
a few minutes later, we could not think what had 
happened to her, she looked so queer ; she told 



us that she had put on all the clothes she had in 
the world, for fear that Sheridan's raiders would 
burn the house. As she had done it rather 
hastily, she looked very humpy, and stuck out in 
the most unexpected places. With every step she 
took, she jingled noisily, as she had a bundle of 
forks, which had been forgotten when the other 
silver was buried, strung around her waist under 
her skirt. Then we were hustled into all our 
clothes, even my frizzled two-hundred-dollar shoes 
were brought out and put on, and I can remember 
now just how uncomfortable and stuffy I felt. 

It was growing dark, and our work was over. 
Mother seated herself stiffly by the fire, like the 
stuffed figure that she was, and took out her knit- 
ting. As the night grew blacker, I began to feel 
more serious about the coming of the Yankees. 
In the afternoon, it had seemed like a big romp, 
in which the grown people had consented to 
share ; but now dim visions of hoofed Yankees 
clouded my serenity. I brought my cricket close 
up to Mother's chair, and Bruce cuddled on tlie 
other side and laid his head in her lap. The winds 
were carousing in the mountains that night, wrest- 
ling together until one mighty wind would over- 
throw another and send it rolling down the sheer 
mountain-sides to fall heavily against the house — 
then came a hush, and the contest again began. 
Except for this, everything was very quiet as we 
three sat there, listening. 

" Why, Mother," said Bruce, suddenly raising 
his head from her lap; ''where is your watch 
gone ? " 

Mother laughed, and taking up her ball of yarn, 
held it to his ear. 

"Oh, Nannie," he cried; "listen! It's tick- 
ing ! " 

"Sh!" said Mother, in a mysterious whisper, 
looking about her suspiciously. "I have wound 
my last hank of yarn around my watch, and I 
think the keenest-eared raider will never sus- 
pect it." 

We sat up late that night, starting if the wind 
struck the house a harder blow than usual or 
banged a loose shutter. We went to bed at last, 
— Bruce, in my trundle-bed, which groaned 
mournfully as it was rolled out from under Moth- 
er's high four-poster, and I in Mother's bed. To 
keep our courage up, I remember. Mother lighted 
the best of our precious home-made candles, — a 
long coil of cloth soaked in tallow, with the lighted 
end held up from the rest of the coil by means of 
a pin. 

The night passed quietly, and, with it, our fears. 
The first thing next morning when I looked out 
of the window I noticed that, in spite of the heavy 
slect which covered the bare trees with beautiful 

armor, the crowd of negroes and neighbors that 
had been lounging about the station and freight 
depot for the last few days had greatly increased. 
Even while I looked, several men straggled up in 
ragged uniforms, with as much of the Federal blue 
as of Confederate gray in them ; but I knew they 
were our men by the hearty greeting of the crowd. 
Bruce and I raced in dressing, and he beat me, 
because he just touched his hair with the brush, — 
mine had to be plaited. But I overtook him on his 
way to the depot to find out what the news was. 

There was no definite news. The people were 
only hovering about with a general sense that 
something would happen presently, and that they 
would rather not be alone when it did happen. 
At least that was the way I felt about it. The 
impression of danger was increased by the vague 
rumors brought from time to time by the Confed- 
erate stragglers. They had become separated from 
General Early's command, and assured us that 
Blackwood lay in the direct line of Sheridan's raid. 
The men who were guarding the stores marched 
up and down before the freight depot, looking as 
if they knew more than any one else, just because 
General Early had told thern to bring the stores 
there and guard them. 

The sun at last thawed the sleet, and the cold, 
raw day lost its only beauty. Somehow the fasci- 
nation of lingering about the depot was stronger 
than the sense of discomfort. As we stood thus, 
listening to any one who took the trouble to talk, 
we were suddenly silenced. A rumbling, jarring 
sound shook earth and air, and quavered away, 
seeming more a movement than a sound. The 
whole crowd stood still. Then came a distinct 
bootn ! boom ! A man who stood near me, one of 
the stragglers, stopped talking and threw up his 
head. And over his face came an expression I 
shall never forget, — so fierce and yet so hopeless a 
look. He caught my eye, and said gently : 

" Fightin' over the mountain, near Waynes- 
boro', I reckon." 

It was very terrible to stand helplessly there, as 
shock after shock of the cannon reached us, — to 
know that with every boom our men were falling 
so near us, and yet to gaze stupidly at the blank 
mountain-side and know nothing more. After the 
first surprise, there was talk among the crowd ; but 
Bruce and I seemed to be the only listeners. The 
men all agreed that the engagement must be be- 
tween our men under General Early, and General 
Sheridan's army. We did not wait to hear more 
than this, but ran home to tell Mother ; and we 
were so cowed by the sound of the battle, that we 
did not venture out for a long while. 

At last the cannonading became less violent, and 
we found that the crowd had been steadily growing. 






Several hundred people were huddled together, — 
men, women, and children, black and white. Men 
who had been hiding in the mountains crept forth, 
glad of any kind of companionship, and joined 
the motley group. The sound of fighting came 
fainter and fainter, until at last all was quiet again. 
Then there was a movement in the crowd, — some- 
thing definite was being planned. Aunt Patsy ran 
in and told us that the men were about to try to 
get away on the empty trains, which had been 
standing on the track for several days, before the 
Yankees came over the mountains and caught 
them. My interest was naturally aroused, and 1 
ran to see what was being done. Yes, the men 
were working at the engines to get up the steam. 
Even the guards had left their posts and were help- 
ing to kindle the fires under the boilers. As I 
stood looking on at the unprotected stores, a guard, 

who was passing with a bucket of water in each 
hand, shouted out: 

" Go in and help yourself, sissy ; for the Yankees 
will burn them. " 

"And all those buttons!" 1 thought, with a 
fearful pang. Then, with a sudden impulse of 
indignation, 1 rushed in, filling my dress and arms 
with cloth, buttons, darning-thread, anything and 
everything I could reach, — wretched all the while 
with a desperate sense of my lack of arms and 
general storage capacity. As I was tugging at a 
large bolt of cloth, 1 was startled by a great shout. 
Loaded up to my very chin, 1 ran to the door and 
saw that two of the trains, packed with our men, 
were gliding down the track. 

Was that why they were shouting ? 

In answer came a second mighty shout from the 




The Yankees ! 

It was a body of cavalry coming at a swinging 
gallop down the steep, muddy incline, shooting as 
they came. There was a wild panic in the crowd, 
— the negroes screaming and scattering in every 
direction, one huge colored woman climbing a 
fence, with a twin baby under each arm. 

Some of our men ran after the retreating trains, 
to overtake them ; while others labored frantically 
to get the third train in motion. It breathed 
heavily and stirred; but on came the Yankees, 
concentrating their fire on the lessening crowd. 
Bullets and shouts filled the air. With a crazy 
impulse I rushed out into the thick of it, still cling- 
ing with desperation to my booty. The Yankees 
were upon us now, shooting or capturing as their 
tastes dictated. A bullet whizzed past my eai-, and 
then another. The next moment, I was lifted off 
my feet and placed in the shelter of the depot. 

"Stay there!" roared my protector. At that 
instant, a man in blue galloped up and demanded 
the surrender of my friend. 

" I surrender, if you promise to protect this 
young lady." With the bullets singing about me, 
I felt my heart, under its load of dry goods, swell 
with pride when I heard myself called a young lady 
for the first time in my life. 

From my shelter I could see all that was going 
on. I can see it now. The train is well under way, 
and slides down the track. Our men pack in, pile 
in, and cling to the platforms. The Yankees 
shout wild orders, gallop abreast of the train, now 
quickly gathering headway, and pour a steady fire 
into the windows. Again I hear the hollow ring 
of their hoof-beats upon the wooden platform, and 
the crash of the splintering glass as it falls in. A 
cry from the train, now and again, records a tell- 
ing shot. On, on they go, — a mad race! The 
Yankees, standing in their stirrups, pour a fierce 
fire in upon our men. The whole body sweeps on. 
The plunging, galloping horses answer to their 

spurs. Past our house, down the track, on — when 
suddenly the whole body of horse bring up upon 
their haunches. A culvert ! With a derisive yell 
from our men, the train sweeps around the grace- 
ful curve, and is gone ! 

There is nothing left for the blue-coats but to 
ride back. Their prisoners have already been 
marched off by a detachment of their men. 

We were huddled together in the front hall ex- 
pecting to receive some of their wrath when, sud- 
denly, there came an awful roar and crack. The 
freight depot was in flames ! Crash after crash 
split the air, as the fire reached the bombs which 
had been stored there, and they exploded and 
were throw-n up and out in all directions. Mother 
seized us, and rushing through the hall, we fairly 
rolled and tumbled down into the cellar. Even 
there the frightful explosions shook us. This din 
lasted in all its fury for hours and hours. It 
seemed to my childish imagination like a demoni- 
acal battle of unseen spirits. 

At last the noise became less constant, and we 
crawled out and found that most of the bombs had 
gone over the house. It had escaped, by some 
miraculous chance, although the front door was 
burst in by a shell and every pane of glass was 
shattered by the concussion. The yard, how- 
ever, was riddled with them ; and the bombs were 
still exploding. In fact, the last bomb did not 
explode until a week later. 

When we found that we still had a house over 
us, we were glad enough to creep back to the 
cellar, where our privacy was not molested. When 
we ventured out again, there was not a blue-coat 
in sight. The bombs had been too indiscriminat- 
ing for them, and so what we thought to be our 
greatest danger proved to be our safeguard. Many 
houses in the neighborhood were raided ; but I 
never saw another Yankee until a few years ago, 
when I came to New- York and discovered that 
they had neither hoofs nor horns. 



By R. K. Munkittrick. 

NE day a certain 
king grew weary 
of the luxurious life 
he was leading, for 
one by one his 
every pleasure be- 
came monotonous, 
and at last he knew 
not what to do to 
make his life endur- 

So he concluded 
that a sure way out 
of the trouble would 
be to find out how 
other kings had lived before him, and to ascertain 
what they did to gain happiness and peace of mind. 
Accordingly, he ordered a courtier to collect all the 
books concerning kings, both in history and fiction, 
and to read them aloud to him that he might col- 
lect useful information on the subject. 

The courtier gathered a great number of these 
books and read them aloud to the King, who 
still seemed to be at a loss for information regard- 
ing the details of royal happiness. When the 
King had about given up in despair, the courtier 
came to an Eastern story of a ruler who had found 
happiness by changing places with a peasant. 

" That will do," said the King to the courtier; 
" 1 have tried almost every other plan to be 
happy, but without success. I shall now try to 
find some peasant in my realm who would like to 
be King. In all my travels 1 have noticed how 
contented the peasants are. They seem to lack no 
requirement of earthly happiness ; they are always 
singing, even at their work, and 1 would give 
anything to be as happy as a peasant." 

As the courtier attempted to go on with the 
story, the King held his hand up for him to stop. 

" Close the book," said he; " I shall follow the 
example of the king in the story. There may be 
a peasant in my realm who thinks true happiness 
comes to those in power, and who could be induced 
to exchange his position in life for mine." 

The courtier protested against such an experi- 
ment, until he thought the safety of his head was 
involved — and then desisted. 

On the following day, the King started out be- 
hind four white horses, in his best purple and 

golden crown, to exchange places with the happiest 
man he could find. 

On an almost deserted road, he espied a little 
cabin under some large trees that almost screened 
it from view. As the carriage drew nearer, the 
King saw the occupant of the cabin digging in a 
patch. He seemed as happy as the birds that were 
singing on every limb; and he himself sung, while 
he pushed the spade into the ground and turned 
up the soft earth. 

When the carriage stopped, the man dropped his 
spade, and came to the fence to see what was 

The King stepped down and asked him some 
questions regarding the prospect of good crops in 
the country, and then said : 

" I should be very well contented if I were as 
happy as you are." 

"And I," replied the peasant, "should be very 
happy if I were a king." 

" You are one," replied the King, as he threw 
his robes about the man's shoulders, and placed 
the golden crown upon his head. "That is your 
carriage, and these are your servants, who will bear 
witness that we have changed places, and that I 
am the peasant." 

The joy of the new-made king knew no bounds. 
He sat up in the carriage, with all the dignity of 
an old king. In his heart he fancied that he must 
be dreaming, and pinched his arms, and asked his 
attendants to stick pins in him that he might be 
sure he was awake. He thought of his great power 
with absolute glee, and felt supremely happy in the 
knowledge that he could make the country go to 
war, and cut off the heads of people who in any way 
displeased him. What puzzled him most was the 
fact that he had ever been happy before, and he 
was at a loss to understand it. 

"Whip up the horses," he said; "I wish to 
reach the palace before sundown." 

But, in reality, he feared that the old king might 
have changed his mind, and might be running 
along the road to overtake them. 

When he reached the palace, there was little 
excitement, as all the inmates knew they were to 
have a new king, having been informed of the 
nature of the old king's mission in the morning. 

That night he made up his mind to have a grand 
banquet, such as a king should have. So he ate 




a most inordinate quantity of the richest dishes he 
could think of, and he did not stop until almost 
midnight, when he retired. 

He was awakened several times before morning 
with nightmare, and passed so miserable a night, 
that he was tired and sleepy when it was time to 


arise for the day. While he was a peasant and 
worked hard year in and year out, he had never 
known any but nights of refreshing sleep. 

But this did not trouble him much. He con- 
cluded that he would soon become accustomed to 
royal banquets, and that would be the end of sleep- 
less nights. No sooner had he disposed of this 
trouble, than it occurred to him that he had heard 

that it was a common thing for kings to have their 
food poisoned. Perhaps his food had been insuffi- 
ciently poisoned the night before. In that case the 
servants would make sure to put enough in his 
coffee to kill him at breakfast. 

This was a terrible reflection, and it harrowed 
the King's feelings in a way 
that they had never been har- 
rowed before. But he went 
to his breakfast, determining 
that he would not touch the 
coffee. Then he concluded 
that they might deceive him 
by putting the poison where 
he would least suspect it. 

When he was a peasant, he 
never knew such fear as this. 
He finished his breakfast in 
great alarm. His agitation 
had been so great that it gave 
him a worried, pale look. 

"Is your majesty well?" 
asked one of the courtiers. 
" Why ?" said the King. 
" Your majesty certainly 
looks very ill," replied the 

Then the King was satisfied 
that he was poisoned. So he 
threw himself upon a lounge, 
clasped his hands to his fore- 
head, declared he had been 
poisoned, and ordered all the 
servants to be beheaded if he 
should die. 

Shortly after, he was satis- 
fied that nothing serious was 
the matter, and he went out 
in the garden to take a breath 
of fresh air. He had n't pro- 
ceeded far, when he noticed 
some one following him. His 
follower was between him and 
the palace, and he could do 
nothing but depend upon 
himself in case of an attack. 
No matter where he walked, 
this man followed him, so he 
sat down to see if the straggler 
would venture nearer. But the man did not ; he 
stood still and watched. 

The King thought that he could never be at- 
tacked if he allowed his prospective assailant to 
know that he was watched. So he shouted for help, 
and in an instant a dozen servants were at his side. 
" That man yonder is following me to kill me ! " 
he cried, pointing at the man, who stood near. 





" No, your majesty, he is not," replied the 
spokesman of the servants. " He is the man who 
follows you as a guard, to prevent others from 
killing or molesting you." 

" Is it then so common a thing for kings to be 
killed in this way, that it is necessary to have a 
constant guard." 

His servants assured him that such was the case. 

This disturbed his peace of mind to such an ex- 
tent, that he began immediately to Cjuestion the 
absolute happiness of being a king. 

When he returned to the 
palace, there were hundreds of 
people waiting to see him, on 
all kinds of business, — people 
to have petitions signed, min- 
isters with schemes of eveiy 
description, so that the King's 
head spun, and he did n't have 
time to think. 

After he had been a king two 
weeks, he was so completely undone, physically 
and mentally, that he regretted the day he had 
given up his hovel for a palace. 

" Perhaps the old king," he thought, " is as tired 
of my lowly habitation as I am of his crown. I shall 
go and see if he will exchange places with me." So 
the King put on his finest robe and his crown, as 
the old king had previously done, and drove away 
in his grandest carriage. 

* * -^:- * 

As soon as the old king had placed his crown on 
the head of the peasant, and had seen him vanish 
in the distance, he went out where the peasant had 
been digging, and continued the work. After he 
had worked half an hour, all the rheumatic pains, 
of which he could n't rid himself asaking, departed. 
And he sang as merrily as the birds in the 
trees, and felt happier every mmute. At ; 

dinner he had such an appetite that he en- 
joyed every morsel in a way that he had 
never done during his entire reign. 

That night he slept as he had never been 
able to sleep while burdened with the affairs 
of his country. He did n't toss about at all, 
and he did not wake up until the sun was 
high. Then he hurried down and had his break- 
fast while the birds hopped about the door, or sung 
in the rose-bush by the window. 

" I am as happy as a king is supposed to be," he 
cried, "and 1 should be happy to know that the 
present king, poor fellow, would ever be as con- 
tented as I am now." 

And the old king worked on in perfect content- 
ment for days, feeling safe from the conspiracies 
of enemies, and on the best of terms svith his own 
•conscience, so that he was indeed a happy man. 




The garden was progressing finely; and the new 
occupant grew happier every day, and saw nothing 
but sunsliine. This continual flow of happiness 
was never disturbed until one night when the 
king peasant had a terrible nightmare. He awoke 
fearfully agitated and in a cold perspiration — 

He had dreamed that he was a king again ! 

He hastily arose and lighted a candle to take a 
look at the surroundings, to make sure that he was 
not in a palace and was not a king. He was 
afraid to go to sleep for fear the dream might be 

That very day, when he was working and singing 
in the garden, he saw a great dust down the road ; 
and in a few moments, the carriage of the King 
stopped at the gate. 

■' How is the garden getting on ? " said the new 

" Splendidly." 

"Would you not like to give me my hovel 
back in exchange for your palace and crown ?" 

" I could not think of it!" said the old king. 
" You must go to some one who has never been a 
king, if you want to make such an exchange. If 
you go on a little farther down the road, you may 
find some man who would be glad to wear a 

So the new king drove down the road, and asked 

the first laborer he met, if he would like to be a 

" No," replied the laborer; " I was a king for a 
few days, and that was enough for me ; I traded off 
my crown for this shovel and pickax, because the 
king who had given it tojne for a small hut refused 
to trade back." 

The King rode on ; and much to his surprise, 
every man he met refused the unhappy monarch's 
offer to make him a king, each one stating as his 
reason that he had already been a king for a greater 
or less period. 

It seems that every man in the kingdom had 
worn the crown at one time or another, and that 
the King, who was trying to exchange places with 
the humblest being in the realm, was simply the 
last man in the land to get it. 

Thus it was that the nation was filled with people 
who found the greatest happiness in the humblest 
spheres of life, and learned to be contented with- 
out nursing an ambition to be great or powerful. 

The Peasant King had to rule all his life, for no 
one would exchange with him. And when he was 
bent and tottering with age, he would go to the 
bridge that commanded the main avenue of his 
domain, with an umbrella held over him to keep 
off the sun and rain, and persistently offer his crown 
to every passer-by. But no one would accept it ! 


By a. R. Wells. 

Old Mr. Solomon Reeder has a philosophic mind, 
Which is to reading newspapers most wondrously inclined. 
" They broaden one's intelligence," he says, with conscious pride, 
" And bring us into sympathy with all the world outside ; 
And make us feel the universal brotherhood of man. 
Which knits America to Greece and Chili to Japan." 
So every evening after tea he sends " the brats " to bed, 
That in philosophic silence the paper may be read ; 
And lonely Mrs. Reeder, as she mutely knits, can see 
His every feature glowing with a widening sympathy. 
Until, at half-past ten o'clock, he lays the paper by. 
With universal brotherhood a-glimmering in his eye. 



(A Tijiy Ckyistiiias Tale. ) 

By Sophie May. 

Betty is deaf and I am blind. Betty is my 
maid, and we live on the river-bank in a white 
house — they say it is white — and are as happy 
together as two bees in a rose. 

There is this difference between Betty and me : 
I know I am blind, but she does n't know she is 
deaf. I have to ring a very large bell, and half 
the time she does n't hear it ; and once when it 
thundered, she said : " Did you speak, ma'am ? " 

I pity Betty, and would n't for the world have 
her know how deaf she is. 

My name is Mrs. Polly Pope ; but 1 am "Aunt 

Polly " to all the good children in town. Perhaps 
the one I hold closest and kiss oftenest is little 
Lena Paul. I knit worsted stockings for half the 
village, but for Lena 1 knit nothing but silk. She 
is very dear and sweet, and has set me in her 
prayers, all of her own accord. Her mother says 
that sometimes after her little head is on the pil- 
low, she exclaims: " O, I fe-got to bless Aunt 
Polly ! " 

Then she springs out of bed, kneels down again, 
and says : "Please bless Aunt Polly — knits my 
stockings — can't see." 

2 2 1 



God has always blessed me, and surely He 
always will, when a loving child is asking Him. 

One day — it was the day before Christmas — 
Lena came to my house just as Betty and I were 
starting for the chapel with a basket of clothes for 
the poor children. 1 did not quite like to take 
her with us, for she is as frisky as a squirrel and 
chatters quite as much ; but go she would. 

When we arrived she wanted all the little 
frocks, hoods and petticoats, and everything else 
she saw. Mrs. Hay called the poor children to the 
platform to get some shoes ; and Lena whispered : 

"/want a pair of shoes, Aunt Polly." 

" Fie ! " said I, " you don't need them any more 
than a fly needs a pair of spectacles." 

"My shoes is all wored-ed," said she. We 
were glad to get her home, Betty and 1. She 
took my hand and prattled to me all the way. 

Lena is only three years old, and she was un- 
commonly full of mischief that day. 

"What will I do for a pudding?" said Betty, 
after we had been at home about five minutes. 
"I had mixed one, ready to bake, and the baby 
has thrown it into the ash-barrel." 

Little rogue ! She set the water running in the 
kitchen, and I had to go out and stop it, for Betty 
did n't hear. And soon Betty was saying : 

" Naughty Lena, to pull the needles out of 
Aunt Polly's knitting-work, when poor Auntie 
can't see." 

1 brought out the colored picture-books, and 
then Lena was happy for a few minutes. 

" I know every letter there is in this world ! " she 
declared; and she began to read some surprising 
stories aloud to me, in a httle, high, squealing 
tone : " 'Once there was a little boy and the wind 
blowed him, and bime-by it blowed his hair right 
off.' ' Once there was a wee, wee girlie and she had 
thou-sands dollies. Could n't hear and could n't 
see. Cow came, ate 'em all up.' " 

"There, now, guess I '11 go out see Betty." 

She shut the door behind her so softly that 1 
suspected mischief So 1 went out and told Betty 
to give the child some soapsuds and let her blow 
bubbles, for 1 wanted to keep her a good while — 
1 knew her mother was busy. 

" Y?s, ma'am," said Betty. 

I went back to the parlor, expecting soon to 
hear Lena screaming with delight over the bubbles. 
But Betty made such a clatter, beating eggs for a 
fresh pudding and slamming the oven door, that 
Lena's little voice was quite drowned. 

" Betty is a noisy woman," thought I. A whole 
hour passed, and I did not hear a sound from 
Lena. I rang the bell twice for Betty, and asked 
what the child was doing. "I thought she was 
with you, ma'am," replied Betty. 

"With me!" I cried. "Why, I thought she 
was in the kitchen, blowing bubbles. " 

" Pebbles ? " says Betty. " There 's no pebbles 
in the house, ma'am, — nothing but fine white 

It seemed not a word about bubbles had ever 
reached Betty's ears. She had been busy every 
minute, and had not thought of the child. Dinner 
was ready, now ; but I would not sit down till we 
had found Lena. 

"She must be upstairs," 1 said. 

Betty thought not. " Don't you remember 
1 was in your chamber, ma'am, half an hour 
ago, to get you a spool of silk out of your ivory 
box, and would n't I have seen her, if she had 
been there ?" 

"Nevermind, Betty. You go again, and I '11 
go with you." We went from room to room iip- 
stairs, calling "Lena!" but no answer came. 
Then we searched the attic in every corner, then 
the cellar — no Lena was to be found. She could 
not have left the house, for we keep every door 
locked and bolted. She could not have gone out, 
unless somebody from outside had picked a lock 
and come in and stolen her ! That was n't at all 
likely. Somebody /wz^/i/ have done it while poor, 
deaf Betty was down cellar getting potatoes. I 
knew this was not so ; still — where was the child? 
We hunted the house over and over, till I was 
ready to drop ; and then 1 had to send for Mrs. 
Paul, and ask what was to be done. She came in, 
quite out of breath and sadly frightened, with a 
policeman close at her heels. The policeman in- 
sisted on searcliing the house again. This would 
make the sixth time ; but Betty said not a word, 
nor did 1 ; Ave merely followed him. 

"I suppose you 've looked in all the closets?" 
said he. 

" In every one but mine," I answered ; " that is 
always locked, and she can't have got in there ; but 
here 's the key, if you like — here in my pocket." 

He took the key, opened the door — and there, 
if you '11 believe it, was that missing baby curled up 
on a shelf, sound asleep ! She must have slipped 
in when Betty went up after the silk, and Betty had 
locked the door upon her without know'ing it. You 
may fancy how the child was hugged and kissed, 
and how her mother cried over her. 

"I speaked to Betty two times," said Lena; 
"but she did n't let me out, and did n't let me 

After dinner, when everybody was gone, and I 
had taken my nap, Betty came into the parlor, 
and I knew by the way she cleared her throat that 
she had something to say. 

" There 's new coal on in the range, ma'am, 
and if you don't object, where 's the harm in just 




making a Christmas cake for the baby, seeing as I 
shut her up, and scared folks so ? '' 

" Not the least harm, Betty. Only be sure you 
stuff it as full as it will hold with raisins and citron 
and currants and everything nice." 

Betty laughed at that. I knew the cake would 
be a wonder, and so it was. The very odor of it 
put me in high spirits at once. 

" And now, ma'am, I 'm thinking," added 
Betty, clearing her throat again, " would it do to 
frost it? " 

" Frost it as white as the driven snow, Betty. 
And trace her name on the top with little red 
candy drops." 

Betty was in raptures ; but I might have known 
she could n't spell. When she brought the cake 
to me with great pride, I ran my fingers over the 
name, and found it was L-E-A-N-E-R. 

" Beautiful," said I, and did n't tell her there 
were too many letters in it, I dare say she 
thought the darling deserved them all and a dozen 
more. Lena was overjoyed with the cake. It 
outshone for her the costliest gifts on the Christ- 
mas-tree, they said. Dear baby ! That night she 
added to her prayers another "blessing," which 
warmed Betty Fay's old heart through and through : 

" Please bless Betty — can't hear — made me a 
boo-ful Kismas fwosted letter-cake ! " 


By JullA-N Ralph. 

Six or eight pigeons were resting and sunning 
themselves one morning on the corner of the barn 
across the street from my house in Brooklyn. The 
pigeons and the barn belong to a rich gentleman, 
who leaves them in charge of a gardener, a very 
faithful man and known to be the relentless foe 
of the enterprising boys of the neighborhood, who 
can not always resist their desire to cross the fence 
that incloses this man's great garden, with its fruit 
trees, flowers, and household pets. 

As the pigeons sunned themselves, a butcher 
boy came along, on my side of the street, lugging 
a heavy market-basket. He saw the pigeons, and 
stopped and put down his burden. He took from one 
of his pockets a bean-shooter, loaded its leather 
pouch with a tiny stone, took aim at the pigeons, 
drew the elastic as far as it would stretch, and let 
fly. All the pigeons spread their wings, and all 
but one rose high in the air in rapid flight. That 
one fell fluttering head foremost to the ground. 

Up to this point the only fact remarkable was, 
that the boy should have succeeded in hitting one 
of the pigeons. But, after that, everything that 
followed was astonishing. In the first place, the 
boy did not run ; instead, he picked up his basket, 
crossed the street, and rattled on the gate until the 

gardener came. Could it have been that he did 
not know how faithful the gardener was, and how 
likely he would be to fly into a passion and beat the 
offender, or call the police ? 

The boy said something to the gardener, and the 
gardener went away leaving the boy standing at 
the gate. Presently he returned with the limp, 
soft body of the poor pigeon in his hand. He 
stroked the dead bird fondly a moment. Then he 
handed it to the boy, who threw it into the basket 
and went away whistling. 

Now I want to know what the boy said to the 
gardener. I have tried again and again to imagine 
what he could have said that caused the gardener 
to act as he did. I could ask the gardener, and 
perhaps I shall have to do so ; but, first, I pT^pose 
to ask the St. Nicholas boys and girls who read 
this to guess what he said. Many solutions will 
suggest themselves, and I wish to ask as many of 
the readers of St. NICHOLAS as hit upon any wise 
explanation to send it to the editor for the Letter- 
Box. It seems to me that some strange and per- 
haps hidden principle of human nature may thus 
be laid bare. It will be all the more interesting 
to ask t'ne gardener later on exactly what the 
butcher boy said. 



By W. R. Hamilton, Lieut., U. S. A. 

address and easy carriage ; 

Some years ago I was 
on duty, as Professor 
of Military Science and 
Tactics, at one of the 
best and most noted of 
our Western universi- 
ties. The first year of 
my stay there was full 
of uphill work ; but in 
the second year the 
good results that I knew 
must come from the 
thorough administra- 
tion of my department 
appeared in numbers. 

The Cadet Corps, 
which on my arrival 
numbered eighty boys, 
had increased to over 
two hundred young stu- 
dents, who proved them 
selves, under proper 
teaching, capable of do- 
ing the finest kind of 
military work. The 
regular drill, as a gym- 
nastic exercise, devel- 
oped the muscles and 
maintained their health; 
it gave them a graceful 
while the military habits 

of promptness, neatness, and instant obedience to 
orders, and respect for all superior authority, turned 
in a useful direction the animal spirits which usually 
show themselves in the innumerable foolish pranks 
to which college boys are given. The Cadets' 

neat uniforms and soldierly appearance seemed to 
fill the hearts of the young lady students with a 
gnawing envy, at the same time that their eyes 
gazed in veiled admiration at the wearers of the 
brass buttons. 

The college was one attended by both young 
men and young women, and no difference was 
made in favor of either in any department, except- 
ing in mine. As a rule, the girls equaled and 
often excelled the boys in their studies and in the 
practical work of the laboratory. But in the mili- 
tary department the boys ruled supreme and, 
when beaten by the girls in other directions, often 
taunted them with such remarks as, " Why don't 
you join the military department? " or " Perhaps 
you can drill as well as you study ! " The ex- 
ultant soldiers little thought that their words, 
like good seed, might fall on soil only too ready 
to receive it, and in time bring forth fruit little to 
their taste. 

One day after drill was over, several young la- 
dies of the senior and junior classes came to me as 
I was leaving the hall, and one of them said : 

" Lieutenant, if you have a few moments to 
spare, we should like to talk to you." 

" Certainly," I replied, and led the way into my 
office. After we were seated, the young lady who 
had addressed me first, and who had evidently 
been delegated by her companions for that duty, 
spoke again : 

" Lieutenant, we girls want to have a military 

" Well," I replied, after a second or two of sur- 
prise, "do you wish to form a broom brigade ? " 

" No, indeed ! " she answered indignantly; " we 
want a real military company just like the boys', 



"Arc you really in earnest, young ladies?" I 

and we resolved to ask you to help us and drill saying that I would take the matter into consider- 
us. " ation and would give them my answer the next day. 

Upon reaching home, I related the conversation 

to my wife, and spoke of the project in a jesting 

way ; but, much to my surprise, she, instead of 

laughing at it, replied : 

"Well, I see no reason why you should not 
do what they wish. I have often heard you say 
that the 'setting-up' exercises and 'marching' 
were admirable gymnastic work, and I 'm sure 
they would be as good for girls as for boys." 


" Yes, indeed ! We are, we are ! " they 
replied in chorus. 

"You see," continued the fair young 
speaker, " we are on the same terms 
as the boys in every department except- 
ing the military, and we think we can do 
as well as the boys in that. There are 
about forty girls who wish to join the 
company, and we have been talking over 
the plan for some time. We can not 
see why we should n't try it. And we "' 

once heard you say that you believed 
military drill would be a good thing for 

I saw that they were thoroughly in earnest, and 
so, not to disappoint them too abruptly, I stated 
many objections to the experiment, and ended by 

Vol. XV.— 15. 

"But," I answered, 
their dresses prevent." 
"Oh, as for that. 

she replied. 




enough to devise a uniform which will be pretty and 
no hindrance to them." 

We fully discussed the suggestion ; and the more 
I thought of the scheme, the more I liked it. 

So the next afternoon, I was ready with an answer; 
and when the girls had come in, I made a little 
speech to them, beginning : 

" Young ladies, I have thought over your plan 
of organizing a girls' military company, and I be- 
lieve that if you enter into it with proper spirit, it 
can be carried out, and that it will please and benefit 
all of you." Here the)- clapped their hands. I 
went on : "I am willing to undertake the work, 
but only upon two conditions, which must be ful- 
filled on your part. The first of these is that every 
one of you must bring me the written consent of 
her parents or guardians for her to become a mem- 
ber of the company. The second is that every 
member of the company must sign this paper," 
and I then read the following agreement : 

" We, the undersigned, students of the University, do hereby 

agree to join the Young Ladies' Military Company of said Univer- 
sity, and to continue therein for the college term ending , 188-, 

unless officially excused. And we do further agree to attend all 
drills, and to abide by such rules and regulations as shall be made 
for our discipline and drill, and to obey the orders given us by proper 
miUtary authority." 

"Now," 1 continued, "if you can get thirty 
young ladies to sign that paper, and to bring me 
the necessary written consent, I will obtain the 
Faculty's permission, and next week we can begin 
work. But I wish it understood that our project 
does not mean play, but faithful effort. I shall 
rely upon your promises." 

The girls agreed that the conditions were not 
hard, and they went away, all smiling and happy. 
Before the close of the following day, thirty-seven 
young ladies from fifteen to twenty years old had 
brought me the written consent required, and had 
signed the paper ; and at their meeting I laid the 
matter before the Faculty that night. There was 
some criticism at first, but after a full discussion of 
reasons and objections, I received cordial support, 
and the consent was soon obtained. 

My intention was to make the drill a gymnastic 
exercise for the girls. As with all students, their 
daily work and lack of exercise tended to make 
them round-shouldered and to give them an un- 
graceful carriage. 

I had often noticed how little real or lasting 
benefit the so-called calisthenics brought to young 
women — often, indeed, doing more harm than 
good. Either the exercise is too hard at first, and 
some muscles are overworked and others neglected, 
or else there is not enough exercise, and little good 
is done. Often the loose dress worn is removed as 
soon as the exercise is over, and a tight dress put 

on again. 1 believed that a system of military 
gymnastics, properly applied, would remedy all 
these defects. 

I allowed two or three days to pass by before I 
called a meeting of the girls. Then 1 told them the 
programme of work. First of all the uniform was 
to be procured, and with the assistance of my wife 
the following dress was designed: a kilt-skirt made 
full and short, reaching below the tops of the boots ; 
a blouse-waist with a wide, open sailor collar ; skirt 
and waist of navy-blue cloth, stitched with gold 
thread, and waist trimmed with brass military 
buttons ; a large necktie, tied sailor fashion ; a na- 
val officer's cap, with a gold cord and laurel-wreath. 
The boots were broad-soled, with low heels. No 
garment wns to be tight about the body, corsets 
were forbidden, and all clothing was to be sus- 
pended from the shoulders. The belt around the 
waist was of broad white canvas, with a pretty brass, 

After the uniform was decided upon, the first 
regulation 1 made was that it should be worn from 
the time of going to morning prayer until after 
drill-hour in the afternoon. All the members of 
the company were delighted with the uniform. 
They ordered cloth by the bale, and held two or 
three "sewing-bees" with their mothers and sis- 
ters. 1 had the caps and belts made to order by 
a military furnisher, who also supplied the brass 
buttons ; and in three weeks the company was. 
equipped. The cost of each uniform was about 
seventeen dollars. 

The uniform was so becoming to all, and so 
comfortable, that the young ladies seemed to be 
proud of it, and they soon began to wear it even 
at the reception given by the college societies. 
There were forty-three girls in the company by 
this time ; and, taken together, I never saw 
healthier and prettier young women than these 
same forty-three at the end of three months' drill. 

I held the drill every day but Sunday, at first 
for a half hour only, but soon increasing the time to 
an hour. For the first month spectators were rigor- 
ously excluded. The boys were very curious to 
know how well the girls could drill ; but they were 
compelled to wait for the public exhibition. 

The exercises first taught were the "setting-up " 
drills as used in the United States Army; then fol- 
lowed the various "marchings," "salutes," and 
"facings." 1 found that the girls seemed to show 
better natural capacity for the drill than the boys. 
This was perhaps due to a keener sense of time and 
cadence, and a greater liking for symmetry and har- 
mony. Certain it is, I have never seen wheelings- 
and ahgnments so well executed by boys as by 
those girls after three months' drilling. 1 exhorted 
them to practice the " setting-up " exercises for at 



least fifteen minutes every morning and niglit, 
after rising and before retiring; and I think the 
good re suits obtained were largely due to this habit. 
After the first month of drill, I advised the elec- 
tion of a captain, a lieutenant, a first sergeant, two 
duty sergeants, a color-sergeant, and four corporals. 
The sergeants and corporals wore the regular gold 
chevron on the arm, indicating their rank; and 
the captain and lieutenant wore the gold bars upon 

very mildly. They had absolutely nothing to say, 
except to admit the perfection of the drill. And 
it is not surprising, for I never saw prettier drilling 
in my life, more beautiful marching, nor more ac- 
curate execution of the manual of arms. The girls 
were encored time and time again, until the pretty 
senior who was captain, blushing with pride, was 
compelled to say to the applauding spectators that 
the company was too tired to repeat the evolutions. 



their collars, and also carried trim small swords 
made expressly for them. After a while, I gave 
the company sticks, or wands ; but these were not 
military enough to satisfy them. As the boys' 
rifles would have been too heavy, I had wooden 
muskets made of the same size as the rifles, but 
only four and a half pounds in weight. Then I 
taught the company the manual of arms ; and in 
this, also, they excelled the boys. 

At the close of the term, the girls gave an ex- 
hibition drill. Then the boys were invited to wit- 
ness the drill ; and as there was much curiosity to 
see what the girl-soldiers could do, the hall where 
the drill took place was crowded. 

To say that the boys were surprised is putting it 

It was a lesson to the boys which they did not 
forget ; for the next term they went to work with 
a will, and to such purpose that during the year 
they added lasting honors to their Alma Mater by 
taking first prize in artillery and second in infantry, 
at the greatest drill since the war, in competition 
with the crack militia organizations from all over 
the country. 

But to me the greatest pleasure was the success of 
the girls' experiment, and many and hearty were 
the thanks and congratulations I received from the 
fathers and mothers of the girls, and from the girls 
themselves, for bringing the healthy color to their 
cheeks and the clear look to their eyes. And how 
those girls would walk ! Straight, and dignified, 




and graceful as young queens — it was a pleasure 
to see them move. The newspapers which at the 
beginning had made fun of the experiment, with 
jesting allusions to the " future Grants "and "Sher- 
mans " to come from the " gentler sex," now com- 
pletelychanged theirtone and praised thesystem, — 
some even claiming they had always advocated it. 
They had learned to give prompt, imphcit obedi- 
ence to orders from all proper authority, to com- 
bine courtesy and firmness in speech with decision 
and quickness in action. During the drill-hour 

they were as military in their behavior as the regu- 
lar army, scrupulously saluting and addressing one 
another by the proper military titles. The girls, 
too, had learned other lessons as valuable as any 
they had taught. 

The next term the company continued and it 
recruited many new members ; and it was gratify- 
ing to hear these exclaim, a few weeks after being 
mustered in, that the old aches and pains had ceased 
to exist. And during that term we got up a famous 
exhibition drill, to raise funds to furnish an armory. 

jf'^ P^fj/KDS Fi£j57- j 


Words by Mary J. Jacques. 
Co?/ anima. 


Music by Theresa M. Holmes. 



I. Hey - did - die, Ho - did- die, house-clean-ing time! Rub - bing and scrubbing to 




k" and rhyme; Buck - ets and scour - ing sand, pol - ish and rags, 








J — f^ 






Woe to the house-maid that loi-ters and lags! Hey- did -die ho! Ho - did-dle hey! 


3 -^-^^^^^ J==^ =^p^^w^===^. 






z ii=tz z 


' FhOl. 

' I > ^=1 y-^tE 

:3!1=^= : 

Fed. * 



Hey-diddle, ho-diddle, silver and brass. 
Rubbed till they shine like a new looking-glass ; 
Andirons, candlesticks, shovels and tongs. 
Elbows and marrow-bones, sighings and songs: 
Hey-diddle ho ! Ho-diddle hey ! 

Hey-diddle, ho-diddle, Betty's scoured floor. 
White as the foam on the sandy sea-shore ; 
Clean as a custard-pie, sweet as a pink. 
Is there a home like this anywhere, think ? 
Hey-diddle ho ! Ho-diddle hey ! 

NOTE. — This is intended for a morion song^ ; the words suggest the appropriate action. 


savage animals ; but one day, when 
she was at home, a pretty little four- 
footed creature, not nearly so big as 
her shoe, ran across the room, and 
Nancy jumped up on a chair and 
screamed. The little creature did not 

Once a little boy named Herbert 

sat down and cried on his birthday, 

because he was afraid he would not 

have a birthday present. And at that 

very moment a beautiful horse was 

going to him as fast as it could ! It 

was of just the right size for a little 

boy, and it was said to be a very fast 

horse, too ; and Herbert was very 

fond of riding lively horses. 

wish to harm her, and it ran and 

Once there was a big girl named hid itself in a hole — but Nancy 

Nancy. She liked to go to the Cen- screamed, just the same, till some one 

tral Park, in New York, and look at came to see who was trying to kill 

the lions, tigers, panthers, and other her. 


Once there was a little girl who had a 
lovely doll and a pretty live kitten. One 
day the pretty kitten lay down on the doll's 
lap and took a nap. This crushed the doll's 
fine new dress. Then the little girl was very 
angry at the kitten for doing this, and she 
would not give the poor kitten any supper. 
The kitten cried, but he did not know what 
he had done. He was only a kitten. 


One day a foolish farmer started to take 
a bag of corn to the mill. As he had strong 
arms he held the bag so very tightly that he 
burst a big hole in one corner of the bag, 
and the corn began to spill out. It spilled 
out slowly all the way to the mill ; but the 

man did not see it, and he was much puzzled. " My bag grows very light," 
he said — " and why do so many geese follow me ? They cackle for me to 
give them some of my corn, but I can not spare any. Geese are the foolish- 
est things I ever did see. Heigh-ho ! It 's a long way to the mill." 

VW . , 111 





A Happv New Year to all, to-day ! 
Though winds are blowing and skies are gray, 
And snow and icicles fill the air, 
While mercury stands — I '11 not say where — 
And each one 's thinking, " Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! 
K pretty way to begin the year ! " 

But I '11 change that if you '11 kindly wait. 
For, if you please, 1 am '88. 

I promise you sun and skies of blue 

(And rain and snow-storm and tempest, too). 

But it lies with you, I '11 whisper here, 
To make me a sad or a merry year ; 
For all the sunshine that 's in the sky 
Will not bring smiles if you choose to cry. 
Nor all the rain that the clouds can hold 
Will tarnish a soul that 's bright as gold. 
And so, whatever your score may be, 
Just please remember, and doiCt blame me — 
For once again, as I close, I '11 state 
I am 

Yours submissively, '88. 

A hearty welcome to you, Master '88, from Jack 
and the children ! and our thanks likewise to Lillian 
Dynevor Rice, who has sent your spirited message 
to our meadow. 

Now I will proceed to mention 


Have my hearers ever heard of St. Cross Hospital ? 
It is two and a half miles from Westminster, in 
London, I am told. The other day three gentle- 
men from New York walked up to it and rang 
the bell of the front door. The upper half of the 
door swung open, and a woman handed them 
each a slice of bread and something in a horn cup 

to wash it down with. This mark of attention has 
been shown to every traveler who has called since 
the year 1136; but, of course, not by the same 
old lady, — dear me, no, for that would make her 
seven hundred and fifty-one years old. Henry 
of Blois, they say, left money by his will for the 
express purpose of carrying out this custom. The 
bread given to our modern travelers was fresh and 
good ; and they had a merry time over it. 
By the way, who was Henry of Blois? 


" How many of our Jack's congregation know 
what a ' Jack-screw' is ? " writes R. P. C, of Phila- 
delphia. " Everybody knows what ' Jack-straws' 
and ' Jack-stones' are, but 'Jack-screws' are not 
so well known, even by the grown people. There 
are still other curious ' Jacks ' besides boot-jacks, 
and Jack-o'-lanterns; perhaps some one will find 
them out in trying to place this loose screw." 


Lambertville, N. J. 

Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit : In a bound volume of St. Nicholas- 
I notice an inquiry about mocking-birds poisoning tlieir young when, 

That is beyond my knowledge, but I do know by sad expen- 
ence that cat-birds will poison their young,— for I have vainly 
tried to raise within five years over twenty baby cat-birds. The; 
longest time I could keep them was ten days. When they were a 
few days old the mother-bird always would find them, no matter where- 
placed, and would bravely enter a room where two or three persons 
were sitting, and, though repeatedly driven away, invariably man- 
age to give poison to the little birds. The last one I had I carried 
around with me faithfully for nine days, never letting the cage 
out of my hands or off my lap. The side of the cage farthest- 
from me was covered, so that by no possible means could Mrs. 
Cat-Bird reach her baby, who was fed from my hands. The tenth- 
day I was invited to dine with some friends, and was reluctanL 
to go, fearing harm to the little one; but after much chaffing, I 
finally took the bird-cage up to a third-floor back-room, closed the- 
window-sash, shut and locked the door, taking the key with me, so 
that by no possible means could harm come to the little bird. On my 
return I hastened to get the cage, and as I opened the door, behold ! — 
poor birdie lay on his back, stiff in death- As usual, I cried and blamed 
everybody, and would not be comforted, though reminded that I had. 
taken with me the only key in the house which could unlock that 
door. Of course e\ery one was puzzled. At last we found some- 
glass on the floor under the window ; then the sash was examined. 
A window-pane (that was known to be cracked across) was 
found broken, and sticking to the rather small hole were some- 
breast-feathers, showing the devoted persistence of the parent who 
would not allow her young bird to live if it must pine in a cage. 

That a poisonous berry was given, I am certain ; but what it was- 
I never found out, as all my "scientific subjects," as the family called 
them, were carefully entombed under a hedgerow, and I foolishly 
would not let the graceless medical students of my step-father hold 
/'ost-iiiortcms over them, thinkin.g death was bad enough for the 
poor birds, without being cut into bits- Miss Toreert. 

Ho ! Cat-birds ! what say you to this ? It evi- 
dently is a true account. It is hard to see one's 
children raised only to be prisoners, but are you 
knowing enough and bad enough to murder them 
rather than allow them to live in captivity ? Let 
me hear from you or your friends as soon as pos- 


If I were to ask the children of the Red School- 
house : " Who can see at night all the stars shin- 




ing in the sk'y overhead ? " every httle hand would go 
up, and every pair of bright eyes would be quite 
sure that it could see every star visible from their 
part of the world ; is n't it so ? would n't it? 

Well, the fact is, no human eye could see them 
all without the help of a telescope, or something 
of that sort. I am led to make this remark be- 
cause of a scrap from a scientific paper, that the 
birds have brought to my pulpit. Here it is : 

"According to a celebrated French astronomer, the total number 
of stars visible to the average naked eye does not exceed si.': thou- 
sand. An ordinary opera-glass will bring out twenty thousand : a 
small telescope will bring out nearly two hundred thousand, and the 
most powerful telescopes one hundred million." 

Yet every star, never mind how long it may re- 
main unknown and unnoticed, is ready to shine a 
welcome to every human eye 
that is helped to see it. That 
strikes me pleasantly. 

Someeyes, of course, can see — 

further than others. There 
are near-sighted and far- 
sighted folk, you know ; and 
some who try to see, and some 
who don't try; but all need, 
sometimes, the aid of a good 

The Deacon requests me 
to remark, here, that our bless- 
ings are like stars. Some folk 
can count them more readily 
than others, but one and all 
seem to need considerable 
help before they can discover 
any blessing that is n't of the 
first magnitude. 


Your friend, Mr. John R. 
Coryell, has written for you 
this month an account of a 
certain little animal whose fur 
very often is used to make 
tippetsand muffs for little girls. 

He sends, also, a picture of the tiny creature for 
you to look at. 

By the way, have you ever observed, my hearers, 
that to the eye there is apt to be a stronger family 
likeness among human-kind relations than be- 
tween " cousins" in the rest of the animal world? 
However, that is no reason why you should doubt 
the fact that your furry little friend is, as Mr. 
Coryell says, " the porcupine's first cousin." 

Tell the children, Mr. Jack, that there is just this difference between 
the porcupine and his first cousin : the one is a very spiny, touch- 
me-not, "fretful" sort of chap, and the other is a soft, fluffy, 
dainty, little bit of a fellow. No sensible person would ever 
think of wearing the porcupine's co:it about his neck for a "com- 
forter," while it takes the coats of nearly half a million of his first 
cousins to meet the demand made for them each year 

This first cousin is called the chinchilla, and has its home on the 
slopes of the Andes mountains. For hundreds and hundreds of years 

it has been doing the best it could to add to the comfort of its human 
neighbors : for they do say that when Pizarro, the Spanish soldier, 
went to Peru and stole its accumulated treasures, he found among 
other things most beautiful blankets woven from the long, silky wool 
of the little chinchilla. 

No doubt a blanket of such wool would be exquisitely soft and 
delightfully warm : but as it would require the wool from about a 
thousand chincliillas to make it, it is unlikely that we ever will give 
up our sheep's-wool blankets in order to do as the Incas did. 

Like its second cousin, the rabbit, the chinchilla lives in burrows 
which it makes in the ground : and like still another cousin, the 
prairie-dog, it sometimes shaies its home with a little owl. Perhaps 
the owl is an unbidden guest : but the chinchilla is too gentle and 
timid a little creature to be rude to its visitor, and so the companion- 
ship goes on for life. 

The chinchilla is so very gende that it requires none of the taming 
customary for animals caught wild, but submits at once and, without 
the least show of resistance, to the will of its captor : taking up its 
home in his bosom or pocket, and eating readily from his hand. As 


it is not much over six inches long, not including the tail, it makes a 
pretty little pet ; and so it is no wonder if the children of Chili and 
Peru are often seen with them clinging lovingly to their necks like 
so many animated tippets. 


I AM informed on pretty good authority that, 
near a place called Mackinaw, in Illinois, there is 
a large patch of ground — about an acre, they say 
— composed of a very dry soil (so dry that it is 
like the finest powder), and a strange gas that 
issues from the place shatters any vessel in which 
it is confined. Snow falling upon this spot, I am 
told, melts instantly, however it may drift and heap 
itself on the surrounding land. 

Now, my girls and boys of Illinois, have any of 
you seen this queer acre — and have I been told 
the truth about it? 


Bv Frank Bellew. 

You all have read the melancholy tragedy of the figures to represent the Ruffians, two to represent 
"Babes in the Wood." But here is a game in the Wolves, two Babes, and two Robins. By bend- 
which a skillful player can save the Babes, and ing back the lower part of each figure, you can 

make it no tragedy after all. Two or more per- make a sort of pedestal for it to stand upon, as in- 
sons can easily play the game. dicated in the diagrams above. 

First draw on card-board, and then cut out, two Perhaps you will criticise the Robins as being 




rather large in proportion to tlie other 
figures ; but you must excuse their 
size by what is sometimes called " ar- 
tistic" license. 

Stand the figures so that they will 
form a row at one end of a table, 
about two inches apart, in the order 
here shown. In front of them, about 
three inches from the row of figures, 
place a saucer; and at eighteen inch- 
es from the saucer place a paper- 
weight or book. 

Each player now takes a strip of 
stiff writing paper, about an inch wide, 
and rolls it up into what is commonly 
called a spill. An ordinary steel pen 
slipped into the small end of a spill, 
between the folds of the paper, will 
make it shoot with a more accurate 
aim. All draw lots to determine 
which shall begin. 

The first player takes his spill 
(which is called his arrow) between 
his finger and thumb, and, planting 
one end on the table against the 
paper-weight, presses it down, so that 
it will shut up, after the manner of a 
telescope ; then, if suddenly released, 
it will spring off in the direction of the 
row of figures. 

Now, the object of each player is 
to knock over with his arrow one of 
the Ruffians, or one of the Wolves, 
and to avoid touching either the 
Babes or the Robins. 

If he knocks one of the Ruffians or 
Wolves over backward, he counts two points; 
falls forward, he only counts one. 

If he knocks either of the Babes or Robins 





if it 

backward, two are either taken from 
his score, or, if he prefers, added to 
that of his opponent, — or of every 
one of his opponents, if more than 
two are playing. 

If the Babe or Robin falls forward, 
it takes off only one point. 

If tjie arrow falls into the saucer, 
or pond, the player is said to be 
"drowned," and his entire score is 
wiped out, and he must begin again. 

Each player takes three shots in 
succession, — picking up his arrow, 
and shooting from the paper-weight 
as at first, but leaving any of the fig- 
ures he may have knocked over lying 
where they fell until the next player's 

If he knocks a Babe or a Robin 
down before he has made any score, 
then of course every one of his op- 
ponents scores. 

If he is drowned before he has 
made any score, then every opponent 
counts six. 

The player who first counts twenty 
wins the game, unless one of the 
players has so far avoided knocking 
down either of the Babes or Robins. 

In that case the game goes on, 

and if that player can count twenty, 

without knocking down either of the 

Babes or Robins, before any one of 

his adversaries counts thirty, then he 

is said to have saved the Babes, and 

wins the game. 

1 f, however, every player knocks down a Babe or a 

Robin, the player first making twenty of course 

wins the game. 



HoLVOKE, Mass. 

Dear St. Nicholas: Papa and I have been very much inter- 
ested in the articles that came out in the August and September St. 
N1CHOL.A.S about folding paper. By reading them careliilly, we 
easily found out how to make everything described, except thi: long 
sink. We tried a good many times to make that, but did not suc- 
ceed until last Thursday. We thought you would be interested to 
know how we finally succeeded. Itwasin this way. First, by making 
a square sink, of good paper, we found we could open and make it 
again, without folding it all at once; that is, we could finish one leg 
before beginning another. Then we undid the square sink, and 
taking an oblong piece of paper, folded it so as to make creases like 
those in the paper which had been made into a square sink. After 
that was done, we made a long sink by making each leg separately. 
Still, we could not easily niak.; a long sink, because this way was 
very awkward, to say the least ; and so we tried to learn how to make 
it by folding in the usual way. This we learned by first making the 
long sink backward, — I mean, unfolding it, and in the opposite order 
from that in which it should have been made. Then it was easy 
enough to make it in the usual way. 

Your constant reader, Winslow H . 

P. S. — Papa says that the above is a very good example of the 
flowers of analysis and of synthesis. 

Winslow's father adds, " Winslow can now make the oblong sinks 
in two ways : with the handles on the short ends, or with the handles 
on the long sides 

New York. 
Dear St. Nicholas: As soon as I received the September num- 
ber I tried the paper canoe and made it after a little trouble. A great 
many have tried it and nearly all have succeeded. This is my first 
letter, though I have taken you for four years. You were a birthday 
present to An American Boy. 

I liked "Juan and Juanita" very much, and was glad they got 
home all right. And I also liked " Jenny's Boarding-house " ; and 
the funniest of all are the " Brownies." 

I have taken you two years, and like you better thanany magazine. 
I will now say good-bye. 

Your constant reader, Etta B . 

Carthage, Tenn. 

Dear St. Nicholas : Some time since I wrote you a letter, and 
in it I spoke of my red-bird, and said I would tell any one who would 
write to me how to rear and educate a red-bird. So many have 
written to me that after writing to some, I have decided to tell the 
rest through you as a medium. 

Get the birds when about two weeks old. A little bread moistened 
with water, with occasionally a berry, is the best food. Drop a drop 
or two of water from the end of your finger into their mouths after 
feeding. They should be fed every two hours until old enough to 
eat by themselves. After they are six weeks old a little scraped- 
apple is good for them. When they can pick up their food readily, 
or perhaps later, you can feed them all sorts of fruit, berries, ar.d 
many kinds of seeds. They relish plantain seed, melon seed, pepper- 
grass, and a few hard-shelled beetles. They should be handled from 
the first. Be tender with them, and do not scare them. You will find 
them very tractable, gentle, and knowing (for birds). When you 
wish them tQ do anything, show them through the whole perform- 
ance at once, and make them do it (with your aid) before j ou stop. 
Then repeat it at will, and they will very soon learn what you wish 
them to do, and do it in such a manner that you will probably ex- 
claim : "Oh, how clever!" After you think they are sufficiently- 
tame, they can be loosed in a room and even outdoors. 

Your friend, Josie M . 

Sa.-j Francisco, California. 

My Dear St. Nicholas : I thought as I had never written to 
you before, that I would write and tell you about a very funny ex- 
perience we had, last summer, on the beach beyond Fort Point. We 
ate our lunch on the hills, and then took our things down to the 
beach, and while Papa was reading a book, my sister and I went in 
wading. We had no sooner gone in than a large wave came dash- 
ing around us, carrying our coats, shawls, shoes and stockings, 
and lunch-basket out to sea; and we were left to get home the best 
way that we could. We were very much frightened, but were 
thankful for our lives. Since then we have heard of two other people 
who went through the same experience as ours. 

I hope this letter is not too long nor uninteresting to be printed as a 
warning to all other little boys and girls who visit the beach as fre- 
quently as we do. Your friend and faithful reader, 

E. S. B . 

New York. 
Dear St. Nicholas: We are two little giris, and one little boy, 
four years old. We all love St. Nicholas. "Juan and Juanita" 
is the best story we ever read. We love "The Brownies," 
especially the Dude. We can not write very well, so Papa writes 
this for us. We wish we could have the St. Nicholas every day; 
it has such good stories. 

We are your little friends, Lulu, Sophie, and Jllius. 

PocoPsON, Chester Co., Pa. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I made some verses about da^f^iries- 
which Mamma said you might perhaps put in the Letter-box I 
made them all myself. 

" Juan and Juanita" is very nice, but I liked " Little Lord Faunt- 
leroy " better. 

I am eleven, and Papa calls me a Centennial baby. 

Tina H. G . 

We Fairy Folk. 

We fairy folk are happy ; 

We play in the sun all day. 
And then at night, under curtains white, 

We sleep till the sun's first ray. 

Some sleep in the laps of the lilies, 

And some in the wild-rose tree, 
And some in the tall oak branches, 

Higher than one can see. 

In the day we do not slumber. 

For we have work to do ; 
And the flowers, that grow without number. 

Need our help, and the brooklet, too. 

Chetopa, Kan. 

Dear St. Nicholas: How many happy hours I have spent 
perusing your interesting pages ! 

How I have laughed " till I cried" at the anrics of the " Brown- 
ies"; mourned or rejoiced, as the case might be, over the adven- 
tures of " Little Lord Fauntleroy," " Juan and Juanita," and others 
of your heroes and heroines ! 

I tried to make one of those "crystallized glasses," but it got 

I have made many of the " Nantucket Sinks," described in your 
last number. I wish you long life and much happmess. 

L. M . 

Fort Worth, Texas. 
Dear St. Nicholas : My home is in Fort Worth. Texas. But 
I spent the summer with my aunt and cousin, in Missouri; they 
live in a big brick house, on a farm. My cousin and I rode horse- 
back very often, and nearly every night we rode up to the pasture 
after the cows, and drove them home, which I thought great fun. 

For we have to make the water run, 
Which makes the mill-wheel turn ; 

And we have to paint the flowers 
And the Liny mountain fern. 

'You say you sleep at evening, 
Under your curtains of white; 
I thought you had your dances 
When the moon was shining bright.' 

No! no! you mistake, little maiden. 

It is not we who dance ; — 
We would very gladly do it, 

If we only had a chance. 

But, you see, we are so weary 
When the night begins to fall^ 

We do not feel like reveling 
In any greenwood hall. 




St. Louis, Mo. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I first made your acquaintance three years 
ago, when I was twelve years old, and have read every number since 
then, from cover to cover, except the riddles and advertisements, 
with much amusement and instruction to myself. Kor instance, an 
article in St. Nicholas some years ago launched me on amateur 
photography. I carefully preserve and bind each volume. I often 
wonder how you manage to think of something new for every new 
number to interest us boys with. 

The other day my father told me about what he called " Paper- 
shadows," which he used to know when a boy. They are made 
with paper cut out in such a manner that if you hold them between 
a bright light and a white wall, the shadows look like the figures of 
animals and of men, like copies of paintings and portraits of celebrated 
persons. If you know how to make them, perhaps more boys would 
be glad to read a description in the St. Nicholas. Such paper 
work would be pleasant for long winter evenings. 

Last summer I went to swimming-school. I saw a great many 
boys learning how to swim. Perhaps you have some useful hints to 
offer us about the art of swimming and other aquatic performances. 
Truly an admirer of yours, Henry W. A . 

Articles concerning both the subjects suggested by our young 
correspondent have already been printed in St. Nicholas. See 
St. Nicholas for March, 1883, "Shadow Pictures and Silhouettes," 
and also for July, 1877, "-A- Talk about Swimming." 

Vevay, Switzerland. 

My Dear St. Nicholas : I have been away from America 
fifteen months, most of the time in Germany and Switzerland. 

I like St. Nicholas better than anything that I have seen over 
here. Myfavoritestories are " Juan and Juanita," " The Brownies," 
and " Little Lord Fauntleroy." 

We are on Lake Geneva. Sometimes when there is a storm the 
waves come over the sea-wall. 

I have learned to row, and am now learning to swim. 

I remain your affectionate reader, Dudley H . 

New Rochelle, N. Y. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I can not help telling you how beautiful 
*' Juan and Juanita " was. My name is Juanita in Spanish also. 

While I was spending the summer with my grandmother, one day 
an organ-grinder came and played on our steps, and he had a 
monkey ; it was great fun to watch him. My cousins would hold up 
a penny, and the monkey would jump for it and put it in a litde 
pocket in his coat ; then my cousin would put a cent in his pocket, 
and the monkey would put his hand into the pocket and bring out the 
cent. He was very much afraid of our dog, and he would cry just 
like a human being whenever the dog came near him. 

I must stop, for my letter is getting long. I am a little giri eleven 
years old, and my name is Jennie D. H . 

Salem, Mass. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I have just finished reading your Letter- 
box, and I thought I would write; I wrote a letter to you once before, 
but I guess it was too long to print, so I will try and not have this 
one so long, because I want it printed so that " H. E." (who wrote 
about " Paper Canoes," on the 874th page of the September num- 
ber) can see that there are three American children who can make 
these little boats. It is rainy to-day, but the next pleasant day we 
are going_to have a boat-race in the canal with these little boats. 
My letter is getting too long, so I will stop. 

Remaining your delighted reader, Irene T. S . 

White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia. 

Dear St. Nicholas: As I have never seen a letter from White 
Sulphur, I will write you one. 

I have three sisters,— one is twenty-two years old, one is nine, and 
the baby is five. The baby says such funny things. One day she 
was speaking for one hand, and then for the other. She spoke for 
her left hand, and said: "Where are you going?" Then she 
spoke for her right hand and answered, " To heaven." Her nurse 
asked her where she learned that word. She said, " In my 
prayers." She is such a funny little chap. 

I have taken your delightful magazine for two years, and my favorite 
stories are " Juan and Juanita," " Little Lord Fauntleroy," "Jen- 
ny's Boarding-house," "Fiddle-John's Family," and "Winning a 

I am afraid my letter is getting too long for you to print. 

Yourinterested reader, Edward E. I . 

{Eleven years old.) 

San Francisco, Cal. 
Dear St. Nicholas : The C. C. C is the name of a cooking- 
club, of which I am treasurer. This club consists of six little giris, 
who meet at my house every Friday afternoon. I have a model 

range, complete in every respect. Our badges are little kettles, tied 
with di'de ribbon. We cook biscuit and fried potatoes, chocolate, 
coffee, tea, and broiled chops. This is our usual uthin. Now, dear 
St. Nicholas, good-bye. 

Your affectionate reader, Coralie N. K . 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little girl, fourteen years old, and 
have taken you for seven years, but have never written to you before. 
I think my favorite stories are ' ' Little Lord Fauntleroy," and " Don- 
ald and Dorothy. " I am studying French and go to a PVench school, 
and am going to begin Latin soon. I have but one pet, a little canary, 
named " Chico," after Mrs. Carlyle'sbird. He is very tame, and also 
cunning. His ca^ze is at the window, and whenever he hears a car 
coming he gives a little chirp. I hope this letter is not too long to 
print soon. Yours devotedly, Sara T. N . 

Mansfield, Pa. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I read in the September number Miss 
Elsie S 's letter. 1 think she is right about the comparison be- 
tween England and America. I have often wished to see West- 
minster and the Tower, also the mountains of the West, and the 
" Golden California." But I think that America's greatness does not 
consist in great armies, old towers, and stately buildings, but in the 
good things she does, — homes for homeless children, benevolent 
institutions for the unfortunate, which she has built all over the land. 

I hope we shall hear some of Miss Alcott's stories soon, and hear 
more of "The Dalzells of Daisydown." I like you, St. Nicholas, 
very, very much. Yours truly, Grace S . 

Westgate-on-Sea, Thanet. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I am a little New Brunswick girl, living in 
England. I like your magazine ever so much. I have a little bro- 
ther Dentin ; we liked "Juan and Juanita " best of all the stories. 

Mr. Stockton has made a slight mistake in his article, " The Low 
Countries and the Rhine." I went from England to Holland last 
summer with my papa ; we did not take the steamer at Harwich but 
at Parkestone Quay, and Harwich is pronounced by English people 
as if spelled" Harrich," not " Harridge." 

I think your pictures are lovely ; we are going to have you bound 
in volumes. 

I remain, your affectionate friend, Ad^le R . 

(aged 9 years.) 

Geneve, Switzerland, " Villa Clairmont." 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have written you many letters, but none 
having been printed; Iwrite again, thinking you will publish one from 
European shores. I left America last April, and was living on Lake 
Constance all summer. I am now with my three sisters at school 
in Geneva, and we are learning the French language. We are 
all infatuated with Geneva. We were sailing on the lake one day, 
when all at once I looked up and remarked how white the clouds 
were, when my friend answered, "They are not the clouds but the 
three peaks of Mt. Blanc" At present the Jura and Savoyan 
mountains are covered with snow, and one can hardly distinguish 
them from Mt. Blanc. 

Geneva itself is a lovely city, but not very lively; it has but one 
theater, but none, either in New York or Philadelphia, surpasses it ; 
it is decorated by magnificent statues and portraits. I have been 
twice to the theater; once I saw " Mignon," and the other time 
saw Coquelin in two of Moliere's plays. 

We study very hard at school^ and every time I have a few minutes 
to spare I employ them in reading my favorite St. Nicholas. 

We all enjoyed "Juan and Juanita" very much, and thought 
"The Ivy Spray" one of the prettiest stories St. Nicholas ever 

Your interested reader, Cecelia L . 

Kansas City, Mo. 
Dear St. Nicholas : 

As you will be fifteen years old in November, 

I send you a letter (I am an old member). 

I pity all children who don't see your pages, 

You are charming to all; you suit all the ages. 

Even Grandpa and Grandma, as they sit by the fire. 

Your stories read over, your pictures admire ; 

And Baby, who sits at their feet on the mat. 

Crows over the likeness of a dear little cat. 

Which he sees in the volume of St. Nick for March; 

And all of the children, who in the fire parch 

Their chestnuts so crisp, soon leave them to cool 

As they look at the pictures of the Brownies at school. 

St. Nicholas, please put this in the Letter-box, 

And thank for the Brownies good Mr. Palmer Cox, 



And all other authors who have long helped to make 
St. Nicholas a treasure. Bui now I must take 
My leave of them all, with a loving good-bye, 
And hope that St. Nicholas never will die. 

Sarah C (age 12 years). 

Florence, Williamson Co., Texas. 

Dear St. Nicholas: On page 767, in the tale "Juan and Jiian- 
ita," the writer has made a serious mistake with regard to the 
"Northers" in Texas. The "Northers" do not come in the sum- 
mer times as stated, but only in ihe winter months. The tempera- 
ture ranges high, generally for two or three days previously, and then 
comes the wind which "all Texans know," but do not particularly 
dread. Although we would certainly not choose to have them if we 
could avoid it, at the same time they are of great benefit to the State: 
for were it not for these " Northers," we would generally be unable 
to preserve our meals for the ensuing year; they also purify the 
air. and are of great value on this account also, as our winters are 

I would also wish to stale that we read with interest your various 
articles on English life and scenery, and that they are always written 
with general accuracy and impartiality. As I am an Knglishman. 
it is pleasing to be able to state this; some publications are so far 
from coming up to this standard. 

Yours respectfully, O. Barnes. 

Dear St. Nicholas: You are much harder on English school- 
boys than are their masters. " To compose in Latin, strictly accord- 
ing to the rules of versification,'' is not a punishment, but an ordinary 
lesson. To write lines as a punishment is a very different thing — it 
means that the boy has to stay in and copy out of any book so many 
lines, to be handed in at a certain time. The boys agree that it is not 
a very severe punishment, and the masters think it rather a waste 
of time. Elizabeth Robins Pennell. 

RoxBUEY, Mass. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I enjoy your stories very much, and look 
forward to their coming with great interest. 1 succeeded in folding 
the Nantucket sink and the boat, and have made them of all sizes 
imaginable. We girls in school use the Nantucket sinks to hold 
our pencil-sharpenings, which purpose it answers very well. Hop- 
ing to see Mrs. Burnett's new story in the next number, 

I remain, your devoted reader, Mary D. B . 

We have received pleasant letters from the young friends whose 
names follow and to whom we present our sincere thanks : — Leslie 
T. Webster, Norman Odgcrs, May S. Pierce, Jeanne, Florence E., 
Raymond and Winthrop Howard, Mary Farr, Edward B. Hyde, 
Mabel P., Orlie C. Dake, Elsie L. Farr, OHve K. Roberts, Agnes J., 
Pauline Batchelder, Mabel M., Ida N. H.. Katie Kendall, Clara P. 
Curtiss, AUmand McG., Alice Slosson, W. F. and H. E. Kay, 
Bessie Newton, Clara C. J., Laura May Hadley, James M. F., Nell 
R. E., Hortense N. Leffingwell, S. T. and A. S., Huby E. S., Myra 
Beaumaris. Harold and Cecil, Ruth Gist, Guy C. F. and Effie J. C. 
Holland, Anna Eva and Ninie, Sadie F. Piatt, Nellie F. P., Susie 
R. and Margaret E. Pollock, Marie, Amy Beach, Maude Brown, 
C. D. and M. H.. Geraldine Harrison, Bertha Weber, Cora Sanford, 
Florence B. Hull, Ethel H. Shook, Kathleen Ashley, Maggie Elliot, 
Mary Walton, E. A. W., Florence L. C, Tamaqua, H. W., J. 
Maude Durrell, Madge J. J. D., Rissie, Helen A. White, Ruby 
and Birdie, George F. G., Leslie W. M., Herbert H., Annie P. 
Rogers, Dell B., Maggie F., Louis A., Nora C, Annie Van P., 
Joanna Augustin, Jessie W. Kirker, Gertrude Parker, Beatrice 
Dunder, B. L., Sam Davis, A. Belle Cady, E. H. Chambers, Mattie 
T. J.. Anna W., Ross. A. Curran, Merle M., Effie A. P., Eugenia 
G. S., L. C. W., J. Coit Harris, Clara S. Weil, and Kathleen. 



Mythological Hour-glass. Centrals, Bellreophon. Cross- 
words: 1. Hyperborean. 2. Agamemnon. 3. Apelles. 4. Aello. 
5. Aea. 6. R. 7. Nox. 8. Capys. g. Amphion. 10. Ama- 
zonian. II. Polymnestor. 
A Mother Goose Rhyme. 

Old King Cole 
Was a merry old soitl. 
And a merry old soul was he ; 
He called for his pi^e^ 
And he called for his boivl. 
And he called for his fiddlers three. 
A Double Diamond. Across: i. S. 2. Act. 3. Deois. 4. 
Ate. 5. I. Downward: i. D. 2. Aea, 3. Scoti. 4. Tie. 
5. s. 

Tvvo Double Acrostics. I. Primals, Christmas Night; 
finals, Forefather's Day. Cross-words: i. Caitiff. 2. Horatio. 
3. Relater. 4. Inspire. 5. Shereef. 6. Taffeta. 7. Melilot. 8. 
Anguish. 9. Seclude. 10. Nettler. 11. Intorts. 12. Grudged. 
13. Hosanna. 14. Tragedy. II. Primals, Christmas Gifts ; finals, 
Christmas Carol. Cross-words: i. Cabalistic. 2. Hieroglyph. 
3. Rencounter. 4. lUuminati. 5. Scourgings. 6. Tantamount. 
7. Mythoplasm. S. Alexandria. 9. Searedness. 10. Geognostic. 
II. Icosandria. 12. Fabricator. 13. Tlaguanuco. 14. Seraphical. 

Novel Rhomboid. 
4. Milan. 5. Lemon, 

Cube. From i to 2, Cleveland ; 2 to 4, departing ; i to 3, Cara 
calla ; 3 to 4, asserting; 5 to 6, portrayal; 6 to 8, liberally; 5 to 7, 
paternity; 7 to 8, yesterday; i to 5, creep; 2 to 6, droF 
allay ; 4 to 8, glory. 

Star Puzzle. From i to 2, discern ; i to 3, derived 
nodated; 4 to 5, desired; 4 to 6, dreaded ; 5 to 6, devoted, 

Central Acrostic. Centrals, Boston Tea Party, 
words: i. saBot. 2. slOpe. 3. biSon. 4. saTln. 5, 

Across: i. Cowed. 2. Salem. 3. David. 

; 3 to 7, 
2 to 3, 


9. frAme. 


6. baNjo. 7. meTre. 8. shEIl. 
chAin. 12. luRid. 13. toTal. 14. 

Illustrated Puzzle. " Extend courteous greeting to every 
one, whatever be his faith." 

Pi. December closes on the scene. 

And what appear the months gone past ? 
Fragments of time which once have been ! 

Succeeding slowly, fled too fast ! 
Their minutes, hours, and days appear 

Viewless in that small point, a year. barton. 

WoRD-SQUARE. I. Valid. 2. Aside. 3. Libel. 4. Ideal. 5. 
Cross-word Enigma. Austerlltz. 

To OUR Puzzlers: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the islh of each month, and 
should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the October Number were received, before October 20th, from Paul Reese — Maud E. Palmer — 
K. G. S.— S. R. H. and D. U. H. — Nettie Fiske and Co. — Effie K. Talboys — Louise McCIellan —" Anglo-Saxon "— Rainie S.— 
Maggie T. Turrill — " Shumway Hen and Chickens " — J. Russell Davis — " Willoughby " — J. Laret, Jr. — F. W. Isllp. 

Answers TO Puzzles in the October Number were received, before October 15th, from Addle and Mona Satterthwaite, 2 — 
" Skipper," 2 — " Puffball," 5 — H. Tardif and A. Pancoast, i — J. W Gardner, Jr., i — Grace Kupfer, 9 — " Socrates," 9 — Edward 
S. Hine, 5 — Mary F. Kooser, i — Ruth, 2 — " Noorna-bin-Noorka," 7 — Charlie Ferris, i — " Goosie," 3 — " Blithedale," 10 — 
Susie I. Myers, i — Josephine A. Sherwood, i — R. V. O., 7 — E. Gull, 7 — Clara Fnnemoser, i — Kafran Emerawit, 8 — S. P-. S.,i — 
Nellie and Reggie, 9 — F. Ries, 8 — Jennie S. Liebmann, 7 — "The Chums," 4 — " Tommy Traddles," i — Annie M., Susie R., and 
Amey L. Bingham, 3 — " Jamie and Mamma," g — Boabalt, 3 — Kate L. Oglebay, 2 — Mona and Eima, 4 — Percy A. R. Varlan, 5 — 
B. F. Muckleston, 2 — " Tartie Ruin," 6 —"Pussy Willow," 7— Rltta, i ~ " Sally Lunn," 7 — V. P. L., 3 — (t. L. W.. 3— "Crys- 
tal," 3 — Jeannie and Marian Swords, i — E. H. D., t — Annie and " Mrs. Aleshlne," 8 — " L. Reltop," 8 — L. M. B., 5 — Helen 
O'Neill. 5— " Pop and I," 8 — Jos. B. Sheffield, 6 —" Solomon Quill," 7 — F. F. V., 2 —" The Cottage," 7 —" May and 79," 7 — 
" Grandma," 5 — N. L. Howes, 10 — " Fo.x and Geese," 10 — " Junket," 6. 


Behead and curtail a small shining body, a title for a lady, and 
breaks, and the words remaining will form a three-letter word-square 
which will read differently across and up and down. h. h, d. 

































29 30 31 32 33 

From i to 5, a girl's nickname; from 6 to 8, a gentle blow ; 9, in 
town; from 10 to 12, common at Christmas-time; from 13 to 21, a 
city of Delaware; from 22 to 24, to request: 25, in town; from 26 
to 28, a beverage ; from 29 to 33, to twist ; from 34 to 39, the most 
brilliant of the planets; from 36 to 38, a plant and its fruit; 15, in 
town; 19, in town; from 41 to 43, to run away; from 40 to 45, re- 
cent ; from 3 to 31, a seaport town of England. " little one." 


Example: Take to work on metal from expanding, and leave a 
small rope. Answer, str-etch-ing. 

I. Take to lessen from blunted, and leave a color. 2. Take 
always from worthy of veneration, and leave to lacerate. 3. Take 

a cozy place from a general pardon, and leave a girl's name. 

4. Take to unite from replied, and leave a musical instrument. 

5. Take roguish from an examiner, and leave a prophet. 6. Take 
a market from feeling a sharp pain, and leave to carol. 7. Take a 
measure of length from grasping, and leave to adhere. 8. Take 
close at hand from a week, and leave transmitted. 9. Take an 
exploit from frustrated, and leave an achievement. 10, Take to 
estimate from scolded, and leave a stratum. 11. Take to assert 
from hesitating, and leave the side of an army. 12. Take torpid 
from stupefying, and leave existing. 13. Take to slay from a small 
kettle, and leave placed. 14. Take recent from compared critically, 
and leave reserved. 15. Take within from palmiped, and ]ea\e 
nourished. 16. Take an abode from uprightness, and leave a small 
vessel usually rigged as a sloop. 

Each of the words removed has the same number of letters. 
When these are placed one below another, in the order here given, 
the initial letters will spell the name of a famous statesman,, 
scientist, author, and inventor, who was born on January 17th, 
1706. C^■RIL deane. 


Mv primals name a certain kind of puzzle; my finals name 

Cross-words : i. An impressive command. 2. Concealed. 
3. Graduates of a college. 4. Mounting. 5. A place of refuge. 6. A 
large and beautiful flower. 7. Frames for holding pictures. 

" two stones." 


r. Behead an animal, and leave a grain 2. Behead a dance, and' 
leave a fish. 3, Behead a gulf, and leave a cave. 4. Behead part 
of the neck, and leave an animal. 5. Behead a useful article, and 
leave a beam. 

The beheaded letters will spell the name of a famous American, 
general. " ^hrandolina." 




I. From a word meaning part of a gun, 
syncopate one letter, and transpose the re- 
maining letters to form a word meaning 
a branch of natural history. 2. Syncopate 
and transpose to consider, and leave disposed. 
3. Syncopate and transpose a small metal 
cap, and leave merry. 4. Syncopate and 
transpose a number of things tied together, 
and leave to mix. 5. Syncopate and trans- 
pose astonishment, and leave an endowmenL 
6. Syncopate and transpose a wax-light, and 
leave a spear. 7. Syncopate and transpose a 
kind of calcareous stone, and leave a domain. 
8. Syncopate and transpose to sneer at, and 
leave expense, g. Syncopate and transpose 
gloomy, and leave a broom. 10. Syncopate 
and transpose a rough draught, and leave 
a large box. 11. Syncopate and transpose 
.-'■"' ^'' a recluse, and Ica\e merriment. 

,^^ The syncopated letters will spell the name 

^^-'^'-'^ ^ of a famous man, born January 1st, 1730, 

.. — --'^''^ ."^^ ^^^"^ said, "He that wrestles with us 

.^ ' '■' ^ ''J^ strengthens our nerves and sharpens our 

— i^' skill. Our antagonist is our helper." 



O DAS-viCEDO swind hatt gish tubao ym rodo ! 
Ey normu eth tealspan shour ahtt era on remo, 

Eht terden sagcer fo eth shedivan gripsn, 
Etli lusLry droplcns fu glon rummes sayd, 

Eht gonss fo sbrid, dan tremslelas grimumum, 
r>an raf shiU mildy sene troughh lerpiip heaz. 


Across: i. A dependent. 2. A follower of Noetius. 3. Far- 
inaceous. 4. Subtile. 5. In prj'. 

Downward : i. In prj-. 2. Half an em. 3. In French, a 
name. 4. Dioceses. 5. A country, 6. Unctuous. 7. No. 8. A 
prefix, g. In pry. SIDNEY j. 


I. Behead a town of Russian Toorkistan, and leave a jewel. 2. 
Eehead a town of British Burmah, and lea\e a city of Italy. 3. Be- 
head an isthmus near the Malay Peninsula, and leave uncooked. 4. 
Behead a cape of Australia, and leave to be in debt. 5. Behead a 
Tiver of West Australia, and leave pale. 6. Behead an island in the 
Malay Archipelago, and leave a city of India. 7. Behead a town of 
British India, and leave a girl's name. 8. Behead a fortified town 
of Spain, and leave a girl's name. g. Behead a large river of Europe, 
and leave a stone used for sharpening instruments. 



Two vehicles in one by an article united 

Making a conveyance once used in lands benighted ; 

That which joins these two, is in each one contained; 

The ivlwlc has therefore three, as need not be explained. 

My fiyst is what Americans have chosen as the word 

To signify what Englishmen prefer to call my third. 

Each came later than the ivhole, for they were not invented 

When mankind, with the whole, were forced to be contented. 

Aly second IS the first thing that 's used in preparation, 

In giving little learners an English education. 


Each of the words described contains the same number of letters. 
"When these have been rightly guessed and arranged one below the 

other (though not in the order here given), the final letters will give 
the name of a man of whom it has been said : " Grand, gloomy, and 
peculiar, he sat upon the throne, a sceptered hermit, wrapped in the 
solitude of his own originality. " 

Cross-words : i. The abode of bliss. 2. A cavern, 3. To 
catch. 4. To abrade. 5. A vegetable. 6. A tropical fruit. 7. 
A httle towel. 8. A large country. Lucv lee brooks. 


Star. From 1 to 2, distrusted ; from i to 3, feared : from 2 
to 3, fondled ; from 4 to 5. a variety of the domestic pigeons ; 
from 4 to 6, writs granted by public authoritj', conveying exclu- 
sive right to use some new device ; from 5 to 6, encumbers. 

Enclosed Diamond : i. In date. 2. A small violin. 3. 
Wearied. 4. A number. 5. In date. 

Easy Square (contained in the diamond) : i. A tub for 
fish. 2. Rage. 3. A number. 

The first and last words of the word-square will, when read 
in connection, form the name of a small animal. F. s. F. 


Four animals are concealed in each sentence. 

I. I call a man noble who will go at any honest work, let each 
rebuff alone and help a careful friend. 2. Do not disturb earnest 
scholars or repel ambitious ones; do not be harsh or severe with 
dullards or pronounce them beyond help. 3. Jack studies Sanskrit ; 
I, German ; and Jack allows no rude, errant being to retard his pro- 
gress during his term in Exeter College. 4 I saw Eli on the sofa 
when I came later in the evening ; he seemed to suffer at times from 
a severe cut, and the doctor thought he would have to trepan the 
right side of the boy's head. " john perrybingle." 


I am composed of si.\ letters. 

One letter is an article: two, a well-known abbreviation; two, a 
conjunction ; two, to perform; three, tumult: three, mineral ; three, 
a measure ; three, a color; three, a deer ; three, a roebuck ; three, 
a poem : three, to annex; four, iiiacti\e ; four, costly; four, to 
penise ; four, an open way; five, a great fear; five, to love; six, 
regarded with profound respect. belle. 


I am composed of eighty-five letters, and form a quotation appro- 
priate to the holiday season. 

My 43-31-64-82-13-23 is ostentation. My 47-8-57-35-79 is much 
desired at the close of a fox-chase. My 61-52-1-73-68 is to filter. 
I\Iy 85-41-5-16-75 is to con over. My 66- 60-2 8-5 4-3-1 8 is a county 
of England My 49-21-33-12-30 i= to move gently. My 70-27-37 
is a tropical fruit. My 19-51-76 is a quick dance. My 50-9-45-34- 
40 is a silken substance. My 56-11-36 is a girl's nickname. Ky 46 
-6-15-20-69 is a freshet. My 77-S1-63-29-25-72-S0-78-42-24 and 
my 32-59-44-22-74-48-83-38 and my 65-26-7--5S-30-71-12 and my 
8^_53_i7-4_2-67-55-i4-io each name something studied daily by 
many readers of St. Nicholas. "Augustus g. hopkins." 




Vol. XV. 

FEBRUARY, 1888. 

No. 4. 


(A Story of Russian Life. I 

By Amelia E. Barr. 

It is Feodosia and Michael Bazaroff who made 
this story. Holding it sacred, I shall not alter it. 
All is here as it happened. They were the chil- 
dren of Prince Ivan Bazaroff, and of the Princess 
Nadia. But they were neither rich nor happy. 
For the prince and princess, having been accused 
of disloyalty to the Czar, had been banished to Si- 
beria, and their children confided to the care of 
Sergius Bazaroff, the brother of the banished 

Sergius had always hated his brother ; was it 
likely, then, that he would love Michael and Feo- 
dosia? Alas! they trembled daily beneath his 
black looks and brutal speech, and listened in fear 
to his terrible voice, as he raged among his slaves 
or shouted out wild Tartar battle-songs until after 

Three comforts had the children : They loved 
God; they loved each other; and they were ten- 
derly loved by those who had them in their care. 
Feodosia's nurse taught her to knit, to embroider, 
and to carry herself like a Russian princess. She 
talked of her father and mother; she reminded 
her when the hours to pray for them came. Fre- 
quently she would say : 

" Now we will speak of the good prince, your 

brave he was ! How 

pious ! 


father — ho 

handsome ! When he rode his black horse 
wore his white- and-gold uniform, there was no 
prince in all Russia fit to hold his stirrup. And 
how lovely was your mother ! I shall be happy to 

Copyright, 1888, by The Century Co. 

my dying day only to have seen her ! Do you 
remember the night she came to you in a sarafan 
of silver brocade, buttoned with sapphires ? In her 
arms, though they were shining witli jewels, she 
carried you. Only your guardian angel could love 
you better." Ah ! — Feodosia had never forgotten 
the starry look of her mother, and the cooing of her 
low words ; so it was her great comfort to talk to 
Matrena of her parents, and then to go away and 
pray for the Deliverer. 

Michael was twelve years old. He had a hand- 
some face, luminous with the glow of his brave, 
bright soul. His dream by night, his hope by day 
was to justify his father and mother, and to bring 
them home in triumph. He had an English tutor, 
a good man, to whom he told all that was in his 
heart : 

" When I am a man, sir, I will fight the battles 
of my Mother Russia ; and, when I have taken this 
and that fortress, I will go to the Emperor and say : 
'Oh, Czar ! how is it possible that 1 am the son of 
a traitor?' And thus 1 will plead for my father 
and mother. 1 shall not be afraid." 

" And also, P.Iichael, remember how ffi: pities 
and cares for us all — the good Jesus." 

Thus they were talking one afternoon in No- 
vember. It had been a day of fear and sad- 
ness. Prince Sergius had been quarreling with a 
stranger, a bad, common-looking man, dressed in 
a sheepskin coat. " And yet he is not a stranger," 
said Matrena. " I have seen him here before. 

All rights reser\'ed. 




Smoloff says that he bayed back at Prince Sergius. 
Who can the man be, that would dare to do that? 
The dogs have been set on a visitor for less." 

Every one was weary with the fear and turmoil 
of the visit. There had been trampling of horses 
and barking of dogs, threats, orders and hurry- 
ing of terrified men and women, until the palace 
felt as if a great storm had rushed through it. 

In the middle of the afternoon Prince Sergius 
and his visitor went out together. The stranger 
was then smiling and affable, but Prince Sergius 
neither looked at him nor answered him. His face 
was black and evil, and he kicked savagely out of 
his path the dogs that accompanied him. 

Then the tutor said: "There is half an hour 
before sunset. Come, Michael, the fresh air will 
calm and strengthen us." And Matrena also rose, 
and brought Feodosia her pelisse of fine fox-fur, 
and her little cap and muff, and they went to- 
gether to the esplanade in front of the house. 

The prospect was dreary enough. Except for 
the pine-belt, it was one great level of snow, silent 
and monotonous, with a few black huts scattered 
here and there. The children talked sadly of what 
most concerned them — Feodosia, of the bags she 
was knitting, Michael, of his studies; and, in alow 
voice, of his uncle's anger. Suddenly there arose a lit- 
tle swirling wind. It blew a bit of white paper along 
the white snow to Michael's feet. He stooped and 
lifted it, and, as the teacher talked, glanced at its 
contents. It was in French, but he knew enough 
of French to perceive in a moment the importance 
of the scrap of paper he held in his hand. He be- 
came pale and breathless, and, without a word, he 
gave the paper to his tutor, who read the words 
and seemed equally agitated. The emotion of 
both was intense. They went silently back to the 
school-room, and the tutor, looking significantly at 
Michael, cut in the collar of his own coat a little 
slit, and then hid the paper in it. This act was 
scarcely accomplished when Feodosia and Matrena 

" The footsteps of the prince are to be heard," 
said Matrena ; and, only a few minutes later, 
Prince Sergius opened the door. His approach 
could usually be heard from afar, and this sudden 
and quiet visit was not without design. He had 
discovered his loss, and he wished to see if those 
whom he most feared were also aware of it. He 
strode into the middle of the apartment and looked 
with keen scrutiny at them ; all rose to their feet 
and stood awaiting his orders, all with bowed heads 
and lowered eyes, except the tutor, who gazed out 
of the window with a melancholy and indifferent 
air. Sergius looked most keenly at the woman and 
the girl. He was sure, if anything was known, that 
their faces would betray it ; but Feodosia and Ma- 

trena knew nothing. Michael had walked behind 
them, and they had not even seen him pick up the 

Prince Sergius bowed to the tutor, as he said : 
"Mr. Cecil, do me the favor to take your seat 
again. I am sure your pupil is idle and imperti- 
nent. A taste of the whip would be good for him. 
Pray let me know if he gives you the least trouble," 
and he looked steadily and savagely at Michael, 
drawing together his light, lowering brows as he 
did so. Michael did not lift his eyelids, but his 
cheeks flushed ; and his uncle saw, also, how pas- 
sionately the boy clenched his small hands. 

Then he turned to Matrena: "Hark thee! 
Come here ! Pack the girl's clothes. To-morrow 
the Countess Vasil comes for her. The saints 
know I am well rid of such a trouble. " 

" I understand, Prince, and obey." 

"Be off, then!" 

For some minutes after the door was shut, there 
was a profound silence. No one dared to speak, 
to move, hardly to glance at another. But every 
heart was full of sad forebodings. In a day or 
two, what changes might begin ! Feodosia was 
going to a new life, full of splendor, — perhaps also 
full of love, for the Countess Vasil was her mother's 
sister, and surely she must love a child so desolate 
and bereaved. 

But her heart was troubled ; she did not re- 
member her aunt, she was going among strangers, 
she was leaving Michael ; perhaps even Matrena 
would not be allowed to go with her. Before the 
white altar in her room, she knelt a long time that 
night. But when she rose, her face was shining 
and happy. " An angel has spoken to her," 
thought Matrena. And Matrena was not far 
wrong. To an innocent girl, the angels whisper 
many sweet things ; they delight to guard her, to 
bear her pure prayers to heaven, to keep her un- 
spotted from the world. 

In the mean time, Michael and his tutor sat quiet 
near the large porcelain stove. Their thoughts 
were too great for much speech ; beside, it was 
dangerous. But in short, whispered sentences, 
they came at length to a decision. 

" Feodosia must be told, and the letter intrusted 
to her, Michael. She will give it to Countess 
Vasil. There is no one more able to act upon it." 

" If I could only go myself ! Can not I go ? The 
letter came to me. Dear master, can not I go? " 

" My boy ! You are a prisoner on this estate — 
at the Czar's pleasure. If you attempted to pass 
its boundary, your uncle would have the right to 
shoot you." 

" It is terrible ! — and we are all innocent." 

" Be strong, Michael. There is an hour of great 
joy at hand. Your father will come back to his 



home. Your mother will come back to her chil- 
dren. Try now to sleep." 

But the boy sat musing, his face growing finer 
and finer, as — 

" He built, with neither hammer nor stone, 
A grand, fair castle of his own." 

Count Vasil's house stood in the heart of Mos- 
cow. It was an old Russian palace, with an Ori- 
ental look outside ; but its interior was furnished 
after the most splendid French fashion. The 
countess, in a Parisian morning dress, was drink- 
ing chocolate ; a Parisian maid waited upon her, 
and she spoke to her in French, with elegance and 
purity. Fcodosia alone was out of character with 
the surroundings. She still wore her Russian cos- 
tume — a sarafan of dark blue velvet, buttoned 
with pearls, showing long, full sleeves of fine mus- 
lin, and a lace ruff at her throat. Her mittens 
were of blue silk, worked with silver ; her slippers 
of blue morocco, and a blue ribbon tied back her 
fine, flowing hair. 

She looked weary and anxious, and her aunt 
said : " You eat nothing, my little one ; are you 
tired with the long journey ? " 

" It is not that, dear aunt. I have in my heart 
such a great trouble." 

" Is it about Michael? Do not fear for him. Mr. 
Cecil is his father's friend ; he will never forsake 

" It is much more than Michael. I can wait no 
longer. Send every one away." 

The countess looked at the child in amazement. 
The girl's soul was in her eyes. From her daz- 
zlingly fair skin there seemed to emanate light. 
She looked taller. She appeared all spirit. It was 
impossible to resist the suffering and entreaty that 
her face, and words, and attitude expressed. All 
together said to the countess, "Control yourself, 
and listen." 

With an imperative motion, she ordered the re- 
moval of the breakfast tray, and as soon as they 
were alone, Feodosia took from her bosom the 
piece of paper, and gave it to her aunt. It was 
soiled and crushed, and the dainty lady took it with 
reluctance. But before she had read many lines, 
she uttered a shrill cry, and struck the bell with an 
impetuosity that brought a dozen servants to 
answer it. 

" The count ! The count ! " she cried. " Send 
the count here immediately ! Without delay ! 
This moment ! " In the interval, she paced the 
room rapidly ; she kissed Feodosia in a rapture of 
joy ; she murmured in Russian, and in French, 
prayers and ejaculations ; she was like a woman 
upon whom had fallen a joy too great to be borne. 

When the count answered her summons, she 
ran to meet him, and put the letter into his hands. 
He had read but a few lines before he rose and 
locked the door; and then, laying the paper upon 
the table, he went over it, word by word, in a 
whisper : 

" Prince Sergius Bazaroff : Thou hast not sent mc the money. 
I shall come for it in two days. If thou pay me not, I will go to the 
police. I will tell them how thou swore away the honor and liberty 
of thy brother, and of thy brother's wife. I will tell them the whole 
plot. Every one is yet living whom thou didst employ. And thou 
wilt not escape with Siberia. For a crime like thine, there is only 
the knout — the knout to death. 

" Alex. KEiiGOFF, 
" at the inn of the Great Bear, street of St. John, Moscow." 

Having read these words. Count Vasil questioned 
Feodosia closely, concerning the stranger who had 
visited Prince Sergius. Then he said : " This duty 
is now in my hands. I will see to it at once. Noth- 
ing that 1 have will I spare. If I can get the Czar's 
ear, I shall succeed immediately — but do not fear ; 
in the end, all will be right." 

The countess had intended to take Feodosia to 
the great stores, and to 'the French modistes. But 
for shopping neither had now any desire. To 
hope, to doubt, to suffer, to wait — these were the 
only things possible to them. And Feodosia did 
not wish to be dressed like a French girl. She 
was under the shadow of the Kremlin. From its 
hundreds of shining domes, the golden cross of her 
faith was glittering. On every pinnacle there were 
the Russian eagles — huge, black, and outspread. 
She was a Russian girl in the heart of Russia. She 
loved her country. She loved the great Czar ; she 
looked upon him as its patriarch and father. She 
never thought of him as doing wrong. He was 
the savior and comforter of his people. If she 
could only reach him ! If she could fall at his 
feet and put into his hands the letter which she 
had given to Count Vasil, she never doubted that 
in the very next moment he would restore her 
parents to liberty and honor, and send their be- 
trayer to his punishment. 

At the end of nine days, Count Vasil called the 
poor child to him. She had scarcely eaten or 
slept ; she had grown thin and weak ; she trem- 
bled at a footstep, at the sound of her own name. 
He took her in his arms and whispered words to 
her which made her sob with joy. Kergoff had 
been easily found. He had confessed all. He had 
produced his confederates in the plot. The Czar 
had listened to the story with pity and anger. 
Orders had already left St. Petersburg for the 
honorable release of Prince and Princess Bazaroff, 
and for the arrest of Prince Sergius. " It is even 
possible that your parents will be here for Christ- 
mas, and oh, little one, will not that be a Christ- 
mas festival ? " he asked. 



" I do not know Christmas, Uncle. Prince Ser- 
gius would never permit us to honor it." 

" The poor child ! Count, we will keep for her 
the children's feast." 

"I am of your mind, my countess. However, 
my good news is not yet all told. There is a fes- 
tival before Christmas — the feast of St. Nicholas — 
the fete day of our Emperor, and Feodosia is bidden 
to be there." 

"Ah ! what an honor ! What is meant by it?" 

" Our Emperor is a just man. He said to me : 
' Before the nobles, 1 degraded Prince Bazaroff. 
I will as publicly re-instate him. At the feast of 
St. Nicholas I will make him a marshal of the em- 
pire. The ukase shall be written, and you shall 
receive it for him.' And my soul spoke without 
being bidden, and before I even thought of the 
words I answered : 

" 'Sire, Prince Bazaroff's little daughter is with 
me. Permit her to have this great joy and 

" And the Czar said : ' Let it be so.' 

" Well, then, there is nothing else to be done." 

" Perhaps he will even speak to you, child. 
What will you say ? There must certainly be a 
little speech prepared." 

" Dear Aunt, when the heart is full, something 
crosses your mind and you speak. I shall find 
words, no doubt. But who shall go and tell Mi- 
chael ? — Michael waiting in that sad room at 
Bazaroff? " 

" This very hour, my child, I will send a safe 
messenger to him." 

The next day they left Moscow for St. Peters- 
burg. The feast of St. Nicholas was close at hand 
and Feodosia must have garments fit for the royal 
presence. But she begged to retain her own cos- 
tume. " 1 have been taught how to wear this," she 
said, " but in those dresses of France I shall be 
awkward and uncomfortable." 

Certainly in no dress of France could she have 
looked more lovely. Her sarafan was of white 
satin broidered with gold, and it had sleeves of 
glistening Indian gauze. Her shoes, of white satin, 
were trimmed with sapphires, and she wore also a 
coronal of the same heaven-blue gems. Her face 
was still round and child-like, with large, wonder- 
ing blue eyes. Her complexion was fair as a lily. 
She was tall and slender, and her easy, dignified 
gait had in it something very maidenly and noble. 
As she walked she seemed to fill the air with fra- 
grance and grace, as a swaying flower does. For 
when a young girl has a beautiful body transfigured 
by a beautiful soul, how lovely and how lovable 
she is ! 

She was not afraid, and yet she trembled a little 
when she entered the magnificent palace of the 

Czar. The blaze of light, of gold, and of jewels, 
the splendid uniforms of the men, the beautiful 
dresses of the women, the flowers, the stirring 
music of the royal bands, almost bewildered lier. 
She glided along between her uncle and her aunt, 
as if she were in a dream ; quite unconscious that the 
presence of a little girl in that august assembly was 
causing princes and marshals and grand-duchesses 
to look with a curious interest at her. 

At length she reached the throne room, and the 
Czar and Czarina entered. His impressive figure, 
and potent face, fascinated her child-heart. This 
mighty Czar had given her back father, mother, 
and home ; had ransomed those she loved from 
suffering and degradation. 

There was an intense stillness, as he bowed to 
the nobles, and said in a loud voice ; 

" Nobles of the Russian Empire, it has been 
fully proved that Prince Ivan Bazaroff was falsely 
accused. I honor my fete day, by restoring to 
him all his rights, and by making him Grand 
Marslial of my own Guard." 

Then Count Vasil spoke to Feodosia, and she 
walked straight to the Emperor. Her beauty and 
grace charmed every eye, and the ecstasy of love 
and gratitude which filled her heart produced in 
her an unconscious elevation, precluding all fear 
or faltering. A murmur of admiration followed 
the child. She had been told to cast herself at 
the Czar's feet. She did not think of that ; — on the 
contrary, she raised her eyes to his face. 

" My child ! " he said kindly. 

" My Czar ! My Czar ! " and, forgetting all else 
in that supreme moment of her desire, she stretched 
out her arms, and lifted her face to his, as if he 
were indeed her father. The action was so natural, 
that it compelled its own answer ; and a thrill of 
sympathy stirred the whole room, when the Czar 
stooped and kissed the tears from the child's wet 
eyelids. Then the Czarina also kissed her; and 
the grand measure of the Polonaise struck up, and 
the nobles began to form for its march ; but Feo- 
dosia knew not anything more till she found her- 
self in the Vasil carriage, crying softly in her aunt's 
arms, with rapture. 

It was the night before the Nativity, and Mos- 
cow flashed light from the spires of all her five 
hundred churches. The air was full of bells, and 
fanfare of trumpets, and the glad greeting of the 
crowds on the streets : — " God with us /" Count 
Vasil's house was illuminated with a thousand wax 
candles, and through its splendid rooms, Feodosia, 
accompanied by more than two score "dear com- 
panions," went singing the hymn of the Nativity. 
She was enchanted. Mr. Cecil had often read to 





her the story of the Babe of Bethlehem, and it had 
rested on her mind hke dawn upon the waters. 
But to honor His birthday, to see, and to share its 
joy, made it wonderful to her. She had never 
been so happy in her life. Forty-eight young girls 
had been invited to spend with her the days 
between the Nativity and the Epiphanj-. During 
that time they were to be "dear companions." 
They had arranged something delightful for every 
day — sleighing, skating, ball-playing in the court, 
dancing in the house, and, above all, those singing- 
games which are the delight of Russian girls. 

Early on Christmas-day the gay house became 
gayer. The rooms were full of ladies and gentle- 
men flashing with jewels ; and everywhere there 
was music. In some rooms, the boys and girls 
were singing to it ; in others, they were dancing. 
Can you imagine Count Vasil's banqueting-hall 
with its wax lights, its music, and its two tables 
bright with flowers ? — one surrounded by happy 
children, and the other by ladies and nobles. The 
Christmas feast is waiting, and Count Vasil raises 
the Christmas song that all Russia is singing : 

" Glory to (iod in Heaven ! S/a7'n .' * 
To our Lord on this earth. S/tiT'n / 

May the right throughout Russia be fairer than the bright sun. 
Sla-'a .' " 

" It is like fairy-land ! " said Feodosia. 

After dinner came the famous jewel-game, for 
the children. An old woman brought in a deep 
dish full of clean water. Another brought in 
bread and salt and three bits of charcoal. Then 
all the boys and girls took off their rings, chains, 
and bracelets, dropped them into the water, and, 
as they did so, they sang : 

*' May the bread and the salt live a thousand years I SLiZ'a .' 
May our Emperor live still longer ! Sla'i'a .'" 

And then the old woman stirred the jewels in the 
water, and covered the dish with a napkin. Now, 
there are many songs for this game : one foretells 
good fortune ; a second, a journey ; a third, sick 
ness ; others, wealth, honor, good marriage, mis- 
fortunes, etc. These songs are each one written 
on a separate card, and the old woman lifts a jewel 
and draws a card at random. The song it calls 
for is then sung, and it is said to prophesy the fate 
of the owner of whatever jewel is lifted with it ; 
and while the ring is put on again, or the bracelet 
clasped, all chant the chorus : 

To her for whom we have sung it, may it turn good ! 
She who has missed it, must do without it: 
Must do without it. — This can not fail." 

At length the old woman said, " I have lifted a 
card. Now let our gracious Princess Feodosia 
predict a great and happy marriage " ; and Feo- 
dosia sang : 

*A Russian word corresponding to the 

*' I saw a sparrow-hawk fly from one lane. Slava / 
And a little dove fly out from another. Slava / 
They flew to each other and embraced each other. Slava .' 
Embraced e.ich other with their light, blue wings. Slava .' 
And the sparrow-hawk and dove, they builded, 
So happily together. Slava .' " 

And lo ! Feodosia had prophesied for herself, 
and while they clasped her locket round her throat 
they sang : 

" To her for whom we have sun g it, may it turn good ! Slava / " 

Thus in charming games, in dances, and song, 
they passed the time ; but Feodosia was always 
thinking, "Perhaps my father and mother will 
come to-day ! — perhaps this very hour! " 

On the eve of Epiphany, the girls were talking 
of the wonderful things said to happen during that 
holy time. For then, according to Russian belief, 
Christ walks on the earth and gives to the sorrow- 
ful, comfort, and to the wicked, an opportunity to 
repent. "My uncle Volnoff was a great miser," 
said little Elizabeth Jelko ; " and on the sixth holy 
night, he met an old man who said, ' Stay, for 
Christ's sake, and give me a kopeck.' And Vol- 
noff felt pitiful, and answered, 'For Christ's sake, 
then, take this silver rouble.' Then Volnoff saw 
for a moment a face like an angel's, and he knew 
the Christ had spoken to him." 

And each girl had some story of the same kind 
to tell. One knew a cruel noble who had suddenly 
taken pity on a miserable slave-child, and had 
found it to be the Christ. 

And it was on the eve of the Epiphany, and the 
girls were singing their parting song: 

"O stars! stars! dear little stars ! 
All ye, O stars, are the fair children. 
Ruddy and white, of one mother ! 
Sent forth through the christened world. 
Dispensers of happiness ! " 

Suddenly some one called "Feodosia!" And she 
ran toward the call, and saw Count Vasil embrac- 
ing a man covered with furs, and the countess kiss- 
ing and crying over a lady whom Feodosia knew at 
once to be her mother. In a moment she was ir» 
her father's arms, she was on her mother's breast, 
and heard them calling her the sweet, pet names 
that all girls love. 

The prince and princess had gone first to St. 
Petersburg, to pay their duty to the Czar ; and 
now, having seen their daughter, they were anxious 
to reach home. For they had heard in St. Peters- 
burg that Prince Sergius had fled from justice ; and 
it was also rumored that he had shot a servant or 
some one of his household before his flight. 

Before midnight they were driving furiously over 
the frozen plain between Moscow and Bazaroff, 
and, by the middle of the day, they once more 
reached their home. 

English words " Glory" or "Hallelujah." 





1 II //■'^ 
When Kergoff ^. ' "** 

\ J 

Mr. Cecil was waiting at the 
open door. But where is Mi- 
chael ? It is the first question 
asked by all. 

" Michael is ill," answered the tutor. 
"What has happened, Cecil? What 
is the matter ? " 

" Nothing to weep over, 
was arrested, word was sent to Prince 
Sergius, and the news put him beside him- 
self. When he entered the school-room, 
I saw at once that he was dangerous, and 
I told Michael to go away. But the Prince 
would not suffer him to go. He seized the 
boy and compelled him to listen to words 

about you, and the excellent Princess his mother, which it would be 
smful to repeat Michael looked brr\ely mto his face. 'You are 
stronger than I, and I must stind,' he said , ' but I do not listen. 
You are speaking falsely of those, of whom )0U should fear to speak.' 
Then the prince struck the boy in the free, and Michael cried out:: 
'My father is truth and honor mj mother is like the angels; it is 

you who ire a thief, and a 
tiaitor'' 1 tried to save the 
bo) 1 did what I could, but 
Sergius shot him — shot him. 





three times. The sleigh was at the door. It was 
the villain's last act before he went away." 

" And what has been done ?" 

" Everything. I sent to Moscow for Dr. Livadin ; 
— the boy has suffired, but is doing well." 

" Come, let us go to him " ; and in a few minutes 
they were all at Michael's bedside. His pale face 
was transfigured with joy ; his weary head was at 
last on his motlier's breast; his father was clasp- 
ing his hands, and crying wiih mingled tears of 
pride and of love. And, oh, what sweet confidences 
he had with Feodosia. What great plans Michael 
made for the future ! 

He has realized all he hoped. Behind the fiery 

bastionsof the Crimea, he thrice won his promotion. 
And if any of the readers of ST. NICHOLAS go 
to Petersburg, and see, at some great military 
review, a general clad in white and gold, towering 
above all other men, with blue eyes flashing like 
an eagle's, and a face full of sweetness and strength 
— that is General Michael Bazaroff, the friend 
of his Emperor, the idol of his soldiers, the beloved 
of all who know him. 

As for Feodosia, she became a great princess; 
but often in the winter nights, when the snow fell 
and the arctic cold was cruel, she would tell her 
children, in words of pity and horror, of the wicked 
Prince Sergius, whom no one ever saw again. 

Though as harmless as could be — 
He was just a mouse, you see — 

He would give the little woman such a fright 
That, though tucked away in bed. 
With the covers o'er her head, 

She could never get a wink of sleep all night. 

When her husband heard a squeak, 

He would tell her, and she'd peek, 
With her dainty little night-cap all awry ; 

After which, o'crcome with fear. 

She wo'.ild quickly disappear 
'Neath the covers, with a terrified " Oh, my ! ' 



So one day, to rid the house 

Of the horrid little mouse. 
Her husband in a cornet did invest; 

And that night, upon a chair 

With his feet high in the air, 
He practiced all the latest tunes with zest. 

And, though his little wife. 

Who 'd been deaf, all through her life, 

Said she did n't mind at all to hear him play. 
Yet the mouse, without regret. 
O'er the cupboard put " To Let," 

And next morning all the neighbors moved away ! 


By Frances Hodgson Burnett. 

Part III. 

Sara could not even imagine a being charm- 
ing enough to fill her grand ideal of her mysteri- 
ous benefactor. If she tried to make in her mind 
a picture of him or her, it ended by being some- 
thing glittering and strange — not at all like a real 
person, but bearing resemblance to a sort of 
Eastern magician, with long robes and a wand. 
And when she fell asleep, beneath the soft white 
blanket, she dreamed all night of this magnificent 
personage, and talked to hnn in Hindustani, and 
made salaams to him. 

Upon one thing she was determined. She would 
not speak to any one of her good fortune — it 
should be her own secret ; in fact, she was I'ather 
inclined to think that if Miss Minchin knew, she 
would take her treasures from her or in some way 
spoil her pleasure. So when she went down the 
next morning she shut her door very tight and did 
her best to look as if nothing unusual had occurred. 
And yet this was rather hard, because she could 
not help remembering, every now and then, with a 
sort of start, and her heart would beat quickly 
every time she repeated to herself, " I have a 
friend ! " 

It was a friend who evidently meant to continue 
to be kind, for when she went to her garret the 
next night — and she opened the door, it must 
be confessed, with rather an excited feeling — she 
found that the same hands had lieen again at work 
and had done even more than before. The fire and 
the supper were again there, and beside them a 
number of other things which so altered the look 
of the garret that Sara quite lost her breath. A 
piece of bright, strange, heavy cloth covered the 
battered mantel, and on it some ornaments had 
been placed. All the bare, ugly things which 
could be covered with draperies had been con- 
cealed and made to look quite pretty. Some odd 
materials in rich colors had been fastened against 
the walls with fine sharp tacks — so sharp that they 
could be pressed into the wood without hammering. 
Some brilliant fans were pinned up, and there were 
several large cushions. A long old wooden box 
was covered with a rug, and some cushions lay on 
it, so that it wore quite the air of a sofa. 

Sara simply sat down, and looked, and looked 

" It is exactly like something fairy come true," 
she said ; " there is n't the least difference. I feel 
as if I might wish for anything, — diamonds and 
bags of gold, — and they would appear ! That 
could n't be any stranger than this. Is this my 
garret ? Am I the same cold, ragged, damp Sara ? 
And to think how I used to pretend, and pretend, 
and wish there were fairies ! The one thing I always 
wanted was to see a fairy story come true. I am 
living in a fairy story ! I feel as if I might be a 
fairy myself, and be able to turn things into any- 
thing else ! " 

It was like a fairy story, and, what was best of 
all, it continued. Almost every day something 
new was done to the garret. Some new comfort 
or ornament appeared in it when Sara opened her 
door at night, until actually, in a sliort time, it was 
a bright little room, full of all sorts of odd and lux- 
urious things. And the magician had taken care 
that the child should not be hungry, and that she 
should have as many books as she could read. 
When she left the room in the morning the re- 
mains of her supper were on the table, and when 
she returned in the evening, the magician had re- 
moved them, and left another nice little meal. 
Downstairs Miss Minchin was as cruel and insulting 
as ever, — Mrs. Amelia wasas peevish, andtheserv- 
ants were as vulgar. Sara was sent on errands and 
scolded, and driven hither and thither, but some- 
how it seemed as if she could bear it all. The de- 
lightful sense of romance and mystery lifted her 
above the cook's temper and malice. The com- 
fort she enjoyed and could always look forward to 
was making her stronger. If she came home from 
her errands wet and tired, she knew she would soon 
be warm, after she had climbed the stairs. In a 
few weeks she began to look less thin. A little 
color came into her cheeks, and her eyes did not 
seem much too big for her face. 

It was just when this was beginning to be so ap- 
parent that Miss Minchin sometimes stared at her 
questioningly, that another wonderful thing hap- 
pened. A man came to the door and left several 
parcels. All were addressed (in large letters) to 
" the little girl in the attic." Sara herself was sent 



to open the door and she took them in. She laid 
the two largest parcels down on the hall-table and 
was looking at the address, when Miss Minchin 
came down the stairs. 

" Take the things upstairs to the young lady to 
whom they belong," she said. " Don't stand there 
staring at them." 

" They belong to me," answered Sara, quietly. 

" To you ! " exclaimed Miss Minchin. " What 
do you mean ? " 

"I don't know where they come from," said Sara, 
" but they 're addressed to me." 

Miss Minchin came to her side and looked at them 
with an excited expression. 

" What is in them ? " she demanded. 

" I don't know," said Sara. 

" Open them ! " she demanded, still more ex- 

Sara did as she was told. They contained pretty 
and comfortable clothing, — clothing of different 
kinds ; shoes and stockings and gloves, a warm 
coat, and even an umbrella. On the poclcet of the 
coat was pinned a paper on which was written, "' To 
be worn every day — will be replaced by others when 

Miss Minchen was cjuite agitated. This was an 
incident which suggested strange things to her sor- 
did mind. Could it be that she had m.Tde a mis- 
take after all, and that the child so neglected and 
so unkindly treated by her had some powerful friend 
in the background ? It would not be very pleasant 
if there should be such a friend, and he or she 
should learn all the truth about the thin, shabby 
clothes, the scant food, the hard work. She felt 
very queer indeed, and uncertain, and she gave a 
side- glance at Sara. 

■'' Well," she said in a voice such as she had 
never used since the day the child lost her father 
— " well, some one is very kind to you. As you 
have the things and are to have new ones when 
they are worn out, you may as well go and put 
them on and look respectable ; and after you are 
dressed, you may come downstairs and learn your 
lessons in the school-room." 

So it happened that, about half an hour after- 
ward, Sara struck the entire school-room of pupils 
dumb with amazement, by making her appearance 
in a costume such as she had never worn since the 
change of fortune whereby she ceased to be a show- 
pupil and a parlor-boarder. She scarcely seemed to 
be the same Sara. She was neatly dressed in a pretty 
gown of warm browns and reds, and even her stock- 
ings and slippers were nice and dainty. 

" Perhaps some one has left her a fortune," one 
of the girls whispered. " 1 always thought some- 
thing would happen to her. She is so queer." 

That night, when Sara went to her room, she 

carried out a plan she had been devising for some 
time. She wrote a note to her unknown friend. It 
ran as follows : 

" I hope yuu will not think it is not polite that I should write this 
note to you when you wish to keep yourself a secret, but 1 do not 
mean to be impolite, or to try to find out at all, only I want to thank 
you for being so kind to me — so beautiful kind, and making every- 
thing like a fairy story. I am so grateful to you, and I am so happy ! 
I used to be so lonely and cold and hungry, and now, oh, just think 
what you have done for me ! Please let me say just these words. It 
seems as if I ought to say them. Thank yon — thank yoit — iha7jk 
you.' The Little Girl in the Attic." 

The next morning she left this on the little table, 
and it was taken away with the other things ; so she 
felt sure the magician had received it, and she was 
happier for the thought. 

A few nights later a very odd thing happened. 
She found something in the room which she cer- 
tainly would never have expected. When she came 
in as usual, she saw something small and dark in 
her chair, — an odd, tiny figure, which turned toward 
her a little weird-looking, wistful face. 

" Wliy, it 's the monkey!" she cried. "It 
is the Indian Gentleman's monkey ! Where can he 
have come from ? " 

It mas the monkey, sitting up and looking so like 
a mite of a child that it really was quite pathetic; 
and very soon Sara found out how he happened to 
be in her room. The skylight was open, and it 
was easy to guess that he had crept out of his 
master's garret-window, which was only a few feet 
away and perfectly easy to get in and out of, even 
for a climber less agile than a monkey. He had 
probably climbed to the garret on a tour of investi- 
gation, and, getting out upon the roof, and being 
attracted by the light in Sara's attic, had crept in. 
At all events this seemed quite reasonable, and 
there he was ; and when Sara went to him, he 
actually put out his queer, elfish little hands, 
caught her dress, and juinped into her arms. 

" Oh, you queer, poor, ugly, foreign little thing!" 
said Sara, caressing him. " I can't help liking 
you. You look like a sort of baby, but I am so glad 
you are not, because your mother could not be 
proud of you, and nobody would dare to say you 
were like any of your relations. But I do like you ; 
you have such a forlorn little look in your face. 
Perhaps you are sorry you are so ugly, and it 's 
always on your mind. I wonder if you have a 
mind ? " 

The monkey sat and looked at her while she 
talked, and seemed much intei'ested in her re- 
marks, if one could judge by his eyes and his fore- 
head, and the way he moved his head up and 
down, and held it sideways and scratched it with 
his little hand. He examined Sara quite seriously, 
and anxiously, too. He felt the stuff of her dress, 
touched her hands, climbed up and examined her 




ears, and then sat on her shoulder holding a lock 
of her hair, looking mournful but not at all agitated. 
Upon the whole, he seemed pleased with Sara. 

" But I must take you back," she said to him, 
"though I 'm sorry to have to do it. Oh, the 
company you would be to a person ! " 

She lifted him from her shoulder, set him on 
her knee, and gave him a bit of cake. He sat and 
nibbled it, and then put his head on one side, 
looked at her, wrinkled his forehead, and then 
nibbled again, in the most companionable manner. 

"But you must go home," said Sara at last; 
and she took him in her arms to carry him down- 
stairs. Evidently he did not want to leave the 
room, for as they reached the door he clung to 
her neck and gave a little scream of anger. 

" You must n't be an ungrateful monkey," 
said Sara. "You ought to be fondest of your 
own family. I am sure the Lascar is good to 

Nobody saw her on her way out, and very soon 
she was standing on the Indian Gentleman's front 
steps, and the Lascar had opened the door for 

" I found your monkey in my room," she said 
in Hindustani. " I think he got in through the 

The man began a rapid outpouring of thanks ; 
but, just as he was in the midst of them, a fretful, 
hollow voice was heard through the open door of 
the nearest room. The instant he heard it the 
Lascar disappeared, and left Sara still holding the 

It was not many moments, however, before he 
came back bringing a message. His master had 
told him to bring Miss into the library. The 
Sahib was very ill, but he wished to see Missy. 

Sara thought this odd, but she remembered 
reading stories of Indian gentlemen who, having 
no constitutions, were extremely cross and full of 
whims, and who must have their own way. So 
she followed the Lascar. 

When she entered the room the Indian Gentle- 
man was lying on an easy chair, propped up with 
pillows. He looked frightfully ill. His yellow face 
was thin, and his eyes were hollow. He gave Sara 
a rather curious look — it was as if she wakened 
in him some anxious interest. 

"You live next door? " he said. 

"Yes," answered Sara. " I live at Miss Min- 

" She keeps a boarding-school ? " 

" Yes," said Sara. 

" And you are one of her pupils ? " 

Sara hesitated a moment. 

" I don't know exactly w-hat I am," she replied. 

"Why not?" asked the Indian Gentleman. 

The monkey gave a tiny squeak, and Sara 
stroked him. 

" At first," she said, " I was a pupil and a parlor- 
boarder ; but now " 

" What do you mean by ' at first ' ? " asked the 
Indian Gentleman. 

" When I was first taken there by my papa." 

"Well, what has happened since then ?" said 
the invalid, staring at her and knitting his brews 
with a puzzled expression. 

" My papa died," said Sara. " He lost all his 
money, and there was none left for me — and there 
was no one to take care of me or pay Miss Min- 
chin, so " 

"So you were sent up into the garret, and neg- 
lected, and made into a half-starved little drudge ! " 
put in the Indian Gentleman. " That is about it, 
is n't it?" 

The color deepened on Sara's cheeks. 

" There was no one to take care of me, and no 
money," she said. " I belong to nobody." 

" What did your father mean by losing his 
money?" said the gentleman, fretfully. 

The red in Sara's cheeks grew deeper, and she 
fixed her odd eyes on the yellow face. 

"He did not lose it himself," she said. "He 
had a friend he was fond of, and it was his friend 
who took his money. I don't know how. I don't 
understand. He trusted his friend too much." 

She saw the invalid start — the strangest start — 
as if he had been suddenly frightened. Then he 
spoke nervously and excitedly : 

" That's an old story," he said. "It happens 
every day ; but sometimes those who are blamed — 
those who do the wrong — don't intend it, and are 
not so bad. It may happen through a mistake — 
a miscalculation; they may not be so bad." 

" No," said Sara, "but the suffering is just as 
bad for the others. It killed my papa." 

The Indian Gentleman pushed aside some of the 
gorgeous wraps that covered him. 

" Come a little nearer, and let me look at you," 
he said. 

His voice sounded very strange ; it had a more 
nervous and excited tone than before. Sara had 
an odd fancy that he was half afraid to look at her. 
She came and stood nearer, the monkey clinging 
to her and watching his master anxiously over his 

The Indian Gentleman's hollow, restless eyes 
fixed themselves on her. 

"Yes," he said at last. "Yes; I can see it. 
Tell me your father's name." 

"His name was Ralph Crewe," said Sara. 
"Captain Crewe. Perhaps,"— a sudden thought 
flashing upon her, — "perhaps you may have 
heard of him ? He died in India." 




The Indian Gentleman sank back upon his pil- 
lows. He looked very \veak,and seemed out of breath. 

" Yes," he said, " 1 knew him. I was his friend. 
I meant no harm. If he had only lived he would 
have known. It turned out well after all. He 
was a fine young fellow. I was fond of him. 1 
will make it right. Call — call the man." 

Sara tliought he was going to die. But there 
was no need to call the Lascar. He must have been 
waiting at the door. He was in the room and by 
his master's side in an instant. He seemed to 
know what to do. He lifted the drooping head, and 
gave the invalid something in a small glass. The 
Indian Gentleman lay panting for a few minutes, 
and then he spoke in an exhausted but eager voice, 
addressing the Lascar in Hindustani : 

"Go for Carmichael,"hesaid. "Tell him to come 
here at once. Tell him I have found the child ! " 

When Mr. Carmichacl arrived (which occurred 
in a very few minutes, for it turned out that he was 
no other than the father of the Large Family across 
the street), Sara went home, and was allowed to 
take the monkey with her. She certainly did not 
sleep very much that night, though the monkey 
behaved beautifully, and did not disturb her in the 
least. It was not the monkey that kept her awake — 
it was her thoughts, and her wonders as to what 
the Indian Gentleman had meant when he said, 
"Tell him I have found the child." "What 
child ? " Sara kept asking herself. " I was the only 
child there ; but how had he found me, and why 
did he want to find me ? And what is he going to 
do, now I am found ? Is it something about my 
papa? Do I belong to somebody? Is he one of 
my relations? Is something going to happen?" 

But she found out the very next day, in the morn- 
ing; and it seemed that she had been living in a 
story even more than she had imagined. First Mr. 
Carmichael came and had an interview with Miss 
Minchin. And it appeared that Mr. Carmichael, 
besides occupying the important situation of father 
to the Large Family, was a lawyer, and had charge 
of the affairs of Mr. Carrisford, — which was the 
real name of the Indian Gentleman, — and, as 
Mr. Carrisford's lawyer, Mr. Carmichael had 
come to explain something curious to Miss Min- 
chin regarding Sara. But, being the father of the 
Large Family, he had a very kind and fatherly feel- 
ing for children ; and so, after seeing Miss Minchin 
alone, what did he do but go and bring across the 
square his rosy, motherly, warm-hearted wife, so 
that she herself might talk to the little lonely girl, 
and tell her everything in the best and most 
motherly way. 

And then Sara learned that she was to be a 
poor little drudge and outcast no more, and that 
a great change had come in her fortunes ; for all 

the lost fortune had come back to her, and a 
great deal had even been added to it. It was Mr. 
Carrisford who had been her father's friend, and 
who had made the investments which had caused 
him the apparent loss of his money ; but it had so 
happened that after poor young Captain Crewe's 
death, one of the investments which had seemed 
at the time the very worst, had taken a sudden 
turn, and proved to be such a success that it had 
been a mine of wealth, and had more than doubled 
the Captain's lost fortune, as well as making 
a fortune for Mr. Carrisford himself. But Mr. 
Carrisford had been very unhappy. He had 
truly loved his poor, handsome, generous young 
friend, and the knowledge that he had caused his 
death had weighed upon him always, and broken 
both his health and spirit. The worst of it had 
been that, when first he thought himself and Cap- 
tain Crewe ruined, he had lost courage and gone 
away because he was not brave enough to face the 
consequences of what he had done, and so he had 
not even known where the young soldier's little 
girl had been placed. When he wanted to find 
her, and make restitution, he could discover no 
trace of her ; and the certainty that she was poor 
and friendless somewhere had made him more 
miserable than ever. When he had taken the 
house next to Miss Minchin's, he had been so ill 
and wretched that he had for the time given up 
the search. His troubles and the Indian climate 
had brought him almost to death's door — indeed, 
he had not expected to live more than a few 
months. And then one day the Lascar had told 
him about Sara's speaking Hindustani, and grad- 
ually he had begun to take a sort of interest in the 
forlorn child, though he had only caught a glimpse 
of her once or twice ; and he had not connected 
her with the child of his friend, perhaps, because 
he was too languid to think much about anything. 
But the Lascar had found out something of Sara's 
unhappy little life, and about the garret. One 
evening he had actually crept out of his own gar- 
ret-window and looked into hers, which was a very 
easy matter, because, as I have said, it was only a 
few feet away — and he had told his master what 
he had seen, and in a moment of compassion the 
Indian Gentleman had told him to take into the 
wretched little room such comforts as he could 
carry from the one window to the other. And the 
Lascar, who had developed an interest in and 
an odd fondness for the child who had spoken to 
him in his own tongue, had been pleased with the 
work ; and, having the silent swiftness and agile 
movements of many of his race, he had made his 
evening journeys across the few feet of roof 
from garret-window to garret-window, without any 
trouble at all. He had watched Sara's move- 




ments until he knew exactly when she was absent 
from her room and when she returned to it, and so 
he had been able to calculate the best times for 
his work. Generally he had made them in the 
dusk of the evening, but once or twice when he 
had seen her go out on errands, he had dared to 
go over in the daytime, being quite sure that the 
garret was never entered by any one but herself. 
His pleasure in the work and his reports of the re- 
sults had added to the invalid's interest in it, and 
sometimes the master had found the planning gave 
him something to think of, which made him almost 
forget his weariness and pain. And at last, when 
Sara brought home the truant monkey, he had felt 
a wish to see her, and then her likeness to her 
father had done the rest. 

"And now, my dear,'' said good Mrs. Car- 
michael, patting Sara's hand, " all your troubles 
are over, I am sure, and you are to come home 
with me and be taken care of as if you were one of 
my own little girls ; and we are so pleased to think 
of having you with us until everything is settled, 
and Mr. Carrisford is better. The excitement of 
last night has made him very weak, but we really 
think he will get well, now that such a load is 
taken from his mind. And when he is stronger, 
I am sure he will be as kind to you as your own 
papa would have been. He has a very good heart, 
and he is fond of children — and he has no family 
.at all. But we must make you happy and rosy, 
and you must learn to play and run about, as m\' 
little girls do " 

'• As your little girls do?" said Sara. " I won- 
der if I could. I used to watch them and wonder 
what it was like. Shall 1 feel as if 1 belonged to 
somebody? " 

"Ah, my love, yes! — yes!" said Mrs. Car- 
michael ; "dear me, yes!" And her motherly 
blue eyes grew quite moist, and she suddenly took 
Sara in her arms and kissed her. That very nigiit, 
before she went to sleep, Sara had made the ac- 
quaintance of the entire Large Family, and such 
excitement as she and the monkey had caused in 
that joyous circle could hardly be described. There 
was not a child in the nursery, from the Eton boy 
who was the eldest, to the baby who was the young- 
est, who had not laid some offering on her shrine. 
All the older ones knew something of her won- 
derful story. She had been born in India; she 
had been poor and lonely and unhappy, and had 
lived in a garret and been treated unkindly ; and 
now she was to be rich and happy, and to be taken 
care of. They were so sorry for her, and so de- 
lighted and curious about her, all at once. The 
girls wished to be with her constantly, and the 
little boys wished to he told about India ; the second 
baby, with the short round legs, simply sat and 

stared at her and her monkey, possibly wondering 
why she had not brought a hand-organ with her. 

" I shall certainly wake up presently," Sara kept 
saying to herself "This one inust be a dream. 
The other one turned out to be real ; but this 
could n^t be. But, oh ! how happy it is ! " 

And even when she went to bed, in the bright, 
pretty room not far from Mrs. Carmichael's own, 
and Mrs. Carmichael came and kissed her and 
patted her and tucked her in cozily, she was not 
sure that she would not wake up in the garret in 
the morning. 

" And oh, Charles, dear," Mrs. Carmichael said 
to her husband, when she went downstairs to him, 
" we must get that lonely look out of her eyes ! It 
isn't a child's look- at all. 1 could n't bear to see 
it in one of my own children. What the poor little 
love must have had to bear, in that dreadful woman's 
house ! But, surely, she will forget it in time." 

But though the lonely look passed away from 
Sara's face, she never quite forgot the garret at 
Miss Minchin's ; and, indeed, she always liked to 
remember the wonderful night when the tired 
Princess crept upstairs, cold and wet, and opening 
the door found fairy-land waiting for her. And 
there was no one of the many stories she was 
always being called upon to tell in the nursery of 
the Large Family, which was more popular than 
that particular one ; and there was no one of whom 
the Large Family were so fond as of Sara. Mr. 
Carrisford did not die, but recovered, and Sara 
went to live with him ; and no real princess could 
have been better taken care of than she was. It 
seemed that the Indian Gentleman could not do 
enough to make her happy, and to repay her for 
the past; and the Lascar was her devoted slave. As 
her odd little face grew brighter, it grew so pretty 
and interesting that Mr. Carrisford used to sit and 
watch it many an evening, as they sat by the fire 

They became great friends, and they used to spend 
hours reading and talking together; and, in a very 
short time, there was no pleasanter sight to the In- 
dian Gentleman than Sara sitting in her big chair 
on the opposite side of the hearth, with a book 
on her knee and her soft dark hair tumbling 
over her warm checks. She had a pretty habit of 
looking up at him suddenly, with a bright smile, 
and then he would often say to her : 

"Are you happy, Sara?" 

And then she would answer : 

" 1 feel like a real princess, LIncle Tom." 

He had told her to call him Uncle Tom. 

" There does n't seem to be anything left to 
'suppose,'" she added. 

There was a little joke between them that he was 
a magician, and so could do anything he liked; 




and it was one of his pleasures to invent plans to 
surprise her with enjoyments she had not thought 
of. Scarcely a day passed in which he did not do 
something new for her. Sometimes she found 
new flowers in her room ; sometimes a fanciful 
little gift tucked into some odd corner; some'- 
times a new book on her pillow; — once 
as they sat together m the c\enmg 
they heard the scratch of a heavy 
paw on the door ot the lOom, 
and when Sara went to 
find out what it was, 
there stood a great 
dog — a splendid 
Russian boar- 
hound with a 
grand silver 
and gold col- 
lar. Stooping 
to read the 
upon the 


as fond of the Large Family as they were of her. 
She soon felt as if she was a member of it, and the 
companionship of the healthy, happy children was 
very good for her. All the children rather looked 
up to her and regarded her as the cleverest and 
most brilliant of creatures — 
particularly after it was dis- 
covered that she not only 
knew stories of every 
kind, and could in- 
vent new ones at a 
moment's notice, 
but that she could 
help with lessons, 
and speak French 
discourse with 
the Lascar in 
It was rather 
painful expe- 
ience for Miss 
Minchin, to 
watch her 
as she had 
the daily 
nity to 
do, and 
to feel 
that she 

"the monkey seemed much interested in her remarks." 

was delighted to read the words: "I am Boris; 
I serve the Princess Sara," 

Then there was a sort of fairy nursery arranged 
for the entertainment of the juvenile members of 
the Large Family, who were always coming to see 
Sara and the Lascar and the monkey. Sara was 

Vol. XV.— 17. 

had made a serious mistake, from a business 
point of view. She had even tried to retrieve it by 
suggesting that Sara's education should be con- 
tinued under her care, and had gone to the length 
of making an appeal to the child herself. 

" I have always been very fond of you," she said. 






Then Sara fixed her eyes upon her and gave her 
one of her odd looks. 

" Have you ? " she answered. 

"Yes." said Miss Minchin. "Amelia and 1 
have always said you were the cleverest child we 
jiad with us, and I am sure we could make joii 
happy — as a parlor boarder." 

Sara thought of the garret and the day her ears 
were bo.xed, — and of that other day, that dread- 
ful, desolate day when she had been told that she 
belonged to nobody ; that she had no home and 
no friends, — and she kept her eyes fixed on Miss 
Minchin's face. 

"You know why I would not stay with you," 
she said. 

And it seems probable that Miss Minchin did, 
for after that simple answer she had not the bold- 
ness to pursue the subject. She merely sent in a 
bill for the expense of Sara's education and sup- 
port, and she made it quite large enough. And 
because Mr. Carrisford thought Sara would wish 
it paid, it was paid. When Mr. Carmichael paid 
it he had a brief interview with Miss Minchin in 
which he expressed his opinion with much clear- 
ness and force ; and it is quite certain that Miss 
Minchin did not enjoy the conversation. 

Sara had been about a month with Mr. Carris- 
ford, and had begun to realize that her happiness 
was not a dream, when one night the Indian Gen- 
tleman saw that she sat a long time with her cheek 
on her hand looking at the fire. 

" What are you ' supposing,' Sara ? " he asked. 
Sara looked up with a bright color on her cheeks. 

" I -Ltias ' supposing,' " she said; " I was remem- 
bering that hungry day, and a child I saw." 

"But there were a great many hungry days," 
said the Indian Gentleman, with a rather sad tone 
in his voice. " Which hungry day was it ? " 

" I forgot you did n't know," said Sara. " It was 
the day I found the things in my garret." 

And tlien she told him the story of the bun- 
shop, and the fourpence, and the child who was 
hungrier than herself; and somehow as she told 
it, though she told it very simply indeed, the Indian 
Gentleman found it necessary to shade his eyes 
with his hand and look down at the floor. 

"And I was 'supposing' a kind of plan," said 
Sara, when she had finished; "I was thinking I 
would like to do something." 

" What is it?" said her guardian in a low tone. 
" You may do anything you like to do, Princess." 

"1 was wondering," said Sara, — "you know 
you say 1 have a great deal of money — and I was 
wondering if I could go and see the bun-woman 
and tell her that if, when hungry children — partic- 
ularly on those dreadful days — come and sit on the 
steps or look in at the window, she would just 

call them in and give them something to eat ; she 
might send the bills to me and I would pay them — 
could I do that ? " 

" You shall do it to-morrow morning," said the 
Indian Gentleman. 

" Thank you," said Sara ; " you see I know what 
it is to be hungry, and it is very hard when one 
can't even pre/end it away." 

"Yes, yes, my dear," said the Indian Gentle- 
man. " Yes, it must be. Try to forget it. Come 
and sit on this footstool near my knee, and only 
remember you are a princess." 

"Yes," said Sara, "and I can give buns and 
bread to the Populace." And she went and sat on 
the stool, and the Indian Gentleman (he used to 
like her to call him that, too, sometimes, — in fact, 
very often) drew her small dark head down upon 
his knee and stroked her hair. 

The next morning a carriage drew up before 
the door of the baker's shop, and a gentleman 
and a little girl got out, — oddly enough, just as 
the bun-woman was putting a tray of smoking 
hot buns into the window. When Sara entered 
the shop the woman turned and looked at her, and 
leaving the buns, came and stood behind the coun- 
ter. For a moment she looked at Sara very hard 
indeed, and then her good-natured face lighted up. 

" I 'm that sure I remember you, miss," she said. 
" And yet " 

" Yes," said Sara, " once you gave me six buns 
for fourpence, and " 

"And you gave five of 'em to a beggar-child," 
said the woman. "1 've always remembered it. 
I could n't make it out at first. I beg pardon, sir, 
but there 's not many young people that notices a 
hungry face in that way, and I 've thought of it 
many a time. Excuse the liberty, miss, but you 
look rosier and better than you did that day." 

" I am better, thank you," said Sara, "and — and 
1 am happier, and I have come to ask you to do 
something for me." 

"Me, miss!" exclaimed the woman, "why, 
bless you, yes, miss ! What can I do? " 

And then Sara made her little proposal, and the 
woman listened to it with an astonished face. 

"Why, bless me!" she said, when she had 
heard it all. " Yes, miss, — it '11 be a pleasure to me 
to do it. I am a Avorking woman, myself, and 
can't afford to do much on my own account, and 
there 's sights of trouble on every side ; but if you '11 
excuse me, I 'm bound to say I 've given many a bit 
of bread away since that wet afternoon, just along 
o' thinkin' of you. An' how wet an' cold you was, 
an' how you looked, — an' yet you give away your 
hot buns as if you was a princess." 

The Indian Gentleman smiled involuntarily, and 
Sara smiled a little too. "She looked so hun- 


/ /- 



gry," she said. "She was hungrier than I was." 
" She was starving," said the woman. " Many 's 
the time she 's told me of it since — how she sat 
there in the wet and felt as if a wolf was a-tearing 
at her poor young,insides." 

'• Oil, have yoy seen her since, then ? " exclaimed 
Sara. " Do you know where she is? " 

She stepped 10 the door of the little back par- 
lor and spoke ; and the next minute a girl came 
out and followed her behind the counter. And 
actually it was the beggar-child, clean and neat- 
ly clothed, and looking as if she had not been 
hungry for a long time. She looked shy, but 
she had a nice face, now that she was no longer 


" I know?" said the woman. "Why, she 's in 
that there back room now, miss, an' has been 
for a month, an' a decent, well-meaning girl she 's 
going to turn out, an' such a help to me in the 
day shop, an' in the kitchen, as you 'd scarce 
believe, knowing how she 's lived." 

a savage ; and the wild look had gone from her 
eyes. And she knew Sara in an instant, and 
stood and looked at her as if she could never look 

"You see," said the woman, "I told her to 
come here when she was hungry, and when she 'd 




come I ' give her odd jobs to do, an' I found she 
was wlUing, an' somehow I got to hke her; an' the 
end of it was I 've given her a place an' a home, an' 
she helps me, an' behaves as well, an' is as thank- 
ful as a girl can be. Her name 's Anne — she 
has no other." 

The two children stood and looked at each other 
a few moments. In Sara's eyes a new thought 
was growing. 

" 1 'm glad you have such a good home," she 

said. " Perhaps JVIrs. Brown will let you give the 
buns and bread to the children — perhaps you 
would like to do it — because you know what it is 
to be hungry, too." 

" Yes, miss," said the girl. 

And somehow Sara felt as if she understood 
her, though the girl said nothing more, and only 
stood still and looked, and looked after her as 
she went out of the shop and got into the carriage 
and drove away. 



CHl^rcN-Orh^ o\\\^&r. 

■ Oho ! " said Cupid, " I 've spoiled my pens. 

And inked my fingers and thumb ! 
But I 've asked our friends, the robins and wrens. 

To our holiday dance to come." 
Then the merriest Love that floats. 

With the prettiest, curly head, 
Went off with a bundle of notes, 

Tied-up with a spider's thread. 

He knocked at each snug little nest, 
And he gave, with a bow, the line 

That carried the dainty request 
For the day of St. Valentine. 

The robins and wrens were invited, 

And accepted with accents delighted; 
The father-birds brushed their coats, 
The mother-birds strained their throats. 

— But the sparrows, alas ! were slighted. 

So they perched near Sir Cupid's door, 
And, with many a hoot and grin. 
They jibed at the guests going in 

And laughed at the wraps they wore. 

For robins were muffled in fur. 
Or in mantles old and plain ; 

One fussy old wren wore a gossamer, 
She was "so afraid 'twould rain." 



Then the sparrows beheld with spite 

How each Love, with a white rosette 
Did the honors with bows polite, 

Or danced in the minuet. 
They scoffed when the robins hopped. 

Or the wrens cut a pigeon-wing ; 
They laughed when the music stopped, 

And the birds began to sing. 



But, oh ! when they saw them sup 

On delicate, dainty fare, — 
Drink dew from an acorn-cup, 

Eat bay-berries ripe and rare, — 

They vowed, with a vicious air, 
They would break the party up 

If the owl were only there ! 
Then they yawned that they did n't care. 
And gazed with a silent stare. 

When the smiling red-faced sun 

Looked in on the ball with surprise. 
The dancers had only begun 

To humor their sleepy eyes. 
So they laughed when they saw by the door 

A row of the fluffiest things ! 
Those sparrows were sneering no more. 
They were silent ! — asleep by the score, 

With their heads tucked under their wings. 


By Charles Henry Webb. 

.UT arc there any 'diamond- 
backs ' in Paradise ? " 
I demanded of tlie 
good Herr Doctor. 
"I have lived in 
T Paradise seventeen 
years, and in that 
time have seen — just 
three," he made answer. 
Now the "Paradise" of whicli I write is not 
beyond tlie Jordan, but on tlie Indian River, in 
Florida. It is tlie local name for the loveliest place 
to be found outside of Italy, and we had chosen it 
for our winter quarters. 

On either side of that Paradise rolls a river, — the 
Banana on one hand, the Indian on the other, — 
and in front you have a little lagoon, or lake, 
which shuts you off from the great thorough- 
fare which the Indian River has ever been, and 
gives you a delightful sense of seclusion and secur- 
ity — a sort of a Robinson Crusoe feeling, without 
quite that interesting recluse's solitariness. The 
house stands on the crest of the rising ground — it 
could hardly be called a hill — between the two 

is the reason that the people of Florida, who wish 
to encourage immigration, merely allude to dia- 
mond-backs lightly and cheerfully as "rattlers." 
But there are "rattlers" and rattlers! The rattler 
of the North is more or less common; few have 
gone " huckleberrying " often, without encounter- 
ing one. The better the ground and the day for 
finding berries, the better the chance for rattle- 
snakes, too. But a long stick always made a short 
end of crotaltis adamaiiteiis of northern New- 
York ; were the engagement with crotatjis hor- 
ridus of Florida, though, I should want an un- 
commonly long stick, and you might look with 
considerable certainty to find me at the extreme 
end of it. The common name by which this snake 
is known comes from the diamond pattern which 
Nature, ever liberal with her dyes and designs, has 
printed upon its back. Nothing could be neater 
or more becoming. And, so far as looks go, this 
crotahis is the handsomest and best dressed of his 
kind. But, since "handsome is that handsome 
does" only, the diamond-back is not generally ad- 
mired in tlie circles wherein he moves, breathes, 
and principally has his being. And now you will 

rivers ; and from it, paths lead down to the shores perceive the importance of my question to the Herr 
of both, scarce two minutes' walk to either. Or- Doctor. 

ange-trees, — there are no oranges in the world that 
equal those of the Indian River region, even the 
Maltese fruit paling its ineffectual juices in com- 
parison, — guava, paw-paw, and India-rubber trees 
stretch — the last especially — on all sides. But- 
terflies of gorgeous hues, and winged creatures 
of the most brilliant plumage, bananas, sugar- 
cane, flowers of all colors, delicious jellies, all and 
everything that is supposable in Paradise may be 
found before your door — except forbidden fruit: 
for here no fruit is forbidden. The prevalence of 
serpents was to be expected, of course ; hence the 
question with which I begin. 

The "diamond-back" occurred tome, in connec- 
tion with the story of the older Eden, as a probable 

Of other sorts of snakes, he, speaking for Para- 
dise, confessed that there were plenty ; indeed, he 
said that he " preserved " them, — that is, he inter- 
fered to prevent their destruction. Rats ate his 
sugar-cane, snakes ate the rats; and so the latter 
were regarded as his friends and coadjutors in 
planting. The more snakes, the more sugar. And 
snakes of the harmless sorts came, in consequence, 
to be as carefully respected in our Paradise as 
ibises, holy cats, or sacred bulls ever were in Egypt. 
There was, in particular, one — a huge black snake, 
which the good Doctor made a special pet. It 
had a haunt near the house, under a guava-tree, 
and many a trick we played on the truant if 
we found him somewhat distant from the hole 

drawback to all this luxury and loveliness. Perhaps which stood for his "home-base." We several 

if I say here that the " diamond-baclv " is scien- 
tifically known z.%crotahis hori-idiis, you will know 
what I mean ; perhaps you will not. Possibly my 
statement of that zoological fact will only make 
cold chills creep down your back to no purpose. 
For the name itself is appalling, and this perhaps 

times attempted to moor him by the tail. But one 
might as well try to lay hold of the end of a moon- 
beam to arrest the moving of its light, as attempt 
to grasp the equally elusive tail of this snake 
in the hope of staying his sinuous march. You 
were lucky, indeed, could you seize it at all ; for 





the swiftness with which these clean-heeled con- 
strictors (not inappropriately known as "racers") 
get over the ground is something surprising. As 
you walk through the field, there is a rustle in the 
grass or brush at your feet; yoii licar a black 
flash, see a noise, as it were, and the next moment 
all is still. You look in vain for any trace or track 
of the terrestrial meteor. And, as for strength, if 
this black friend of the Doctor's once got but a few 
inches of his length inside the hole, no one man's 
strength could drag him bacl< or hold him sta- 

Of " coach-whips " we had plenty, too. This is 
aslender, striped, gentlemanly-looking snake, that, 
to all outward appearances, would not for the world 
do anything mean or "crooked." Nevertheless, 
I once caught one of these demure fellows hiding 
a very young chicken within his buff vest. 

The black-snake is a skillful climber, and his 
favorite climbing-pole is an evergreen. 1 have 
often seen one curled up like a knot on a branch, 
or lying snugly in the fork, just where the branch 
joins the tree, apparently asleep, possibly meditat- 
ing. It might not be quite true to say that a 
black-snake is not rarer in a tree than a black-bird, 
but the only black-snake I ever dared to kill, in 
the face of the Doctor's prohibition, was in a tree — 
and up a tree, in this wicked wise : My son Karl 
and I, as we were butterfly-hunting one day, heard 
a bird making a terrible outcry. On reaching the 
underbrush whence the cries came, we found a 
mocking-bird fluttering about in the greatest dis- 
tress. And if any bird can call for help in agonized 
tones, if any bird can vent imprecations upon the 
head of the destroyer of its home, it is surely the 
mocking-bird. Amid the tangle of leaves and 
vines, we were for the moment unable to discover 
the cause of the commotion ; but Karl's young 
eyes were not long at a loss. There, in the crotch 
of a branch, lay the deftly constructed nest of the 
bird, and directly above, like an evil cloud from 
which forked lightning darted, we saw the wicked 
head of a great black-snake threateningly poised. 
Wound closely around the tree and of the color 
of the bark, the body of the snake might readily 
have been taken to be but a climbing vine. The 
cruelty of this snake's raid — or its seeming cruelty 
— exceeded anything I ever witnessed. It seemed 
impossible that any robber could remain unmoved 
by the terrible distress of the poor mother — that 
even the most cold-blooded of creatures could per- 
sist in the perpetration of its wickedness, undis- 
mayed by the harsh, discordant imprecations 
heaped upon it by the mocking-bird, usually most 
musical. But so far from entertaining any idea of 
abandoning its wicked work, or of relieving the 
jnother-bird of her suspense by finishing it at 

once, the snake seemed deliberately to delay the 
winding-up of the dreadful drama ; whether to in- 
crease the tortures of the despairing parent or to 
tempt her within certain reach, I do not know. 

But the truth of the proverb about the probabil- 
ity of a slip between cup and lip was confirmed 
by the ending of the affair. The vengeance so 
despairingly invoked by the agonized mother was 
not delayed. The handle cf our butterfly-net was 
unshipped in less time than it takes to write the 
words, there was a swish in the air, and the long 
black folds relaxed their hold around the tree. 
Limp and lifeless, the body slipped sinuously to the 

But the bird never returned to its nest. 

Even the Herr Doctor confessed that in this case 
I had done exactly right — but he first made cer- 
tain that the snake 1 had killed was not his great 
black pet. 

With yet another snake 1 had a personal inter- 
view. Annie, the Herr Doctor's daughter, was 
in the woods one day, looking for stray goslings, 
and hearing her call to us, we quickly ran to her. 
As beautiful a snake as ever you saw was "making 
itself scarce" as rapidly as it could. About thirty 
inches long, banded regularly with red, black, and 
yellow (Nature never makes a mistake in putting 
her colors together), this was a prize not lightly to 
be missed ; and having no time to find a forked 
stick for its capture, — nor any knife to cut one 
with, — I caught the protesting reptile by the tail. 

Thereafter "its wiggling wasn't any good," as 
Karl said. Holding the captive at arm's-length, I 
carried it to the house. Not the least idea had I, 
all this time, that the snake was poisonous, though 
Annie declared that she had been told so by a 
gentleman, who was connected with the Smith- 
sonian Institution, and who surely ought to know. 

However, I took good care not to let the snake 
bite me — not from any fear of the result, but as a 
point of discipline. When it came to putting our 
prisoner into a bottle cf alcohol, there was trouble ; 
Annie wished us to first kill him, but one does n't 
like to bruise a fine specimen. Alcohol seemed an 
unfamiliar fluid — even this hardened reprobate 
shrank from it. He would put his head into the 
bottle without any objection, but as soon as he 
sm.elt the spirits, back he turned upon his length, 
and while half the body was being vigorously thrust 
in, the other half was as vigorously and more rap- 
idly traveling out. Finally, however, we got him 
in, and the cork in, too — and he must have liked 
the quarters when he got used to them, for he has 
occupied them ever since. Now it may occur to 
you, as it since has occurred to me — though not a 
thought of it came to any one of us at the time — 
that our treatment of that snake was exceedingly 






cruel. So pretty a snake, too ! Had it been a 
rabbit, or even a guinea-pig, we could never have 
treated it in that manner. But beauty counts for 
nothing, if the race be proscribed. And we subse- 
quently learned that the creature was poisonous as 
well as pretty. One day, at St. Augustine, a natur- 
alist informed us (and the statement is confirmed by 
a book issued by the Smithsonian Institution) that 
this same snake, the Coral, or Harlequin, snake, is 
really very poisonous, — a little less venomous than 
the rattlesnake perhaps, but sufficiently poisonous 
for all practical purposes. 1 do not recall all the 
other accomplishments attributed to my snake, 
but I remember distinctly that he is credited with 
"two permanently erect fangs," — quite too perma- 
nently erect to make him desirable even as a 
temporary companion. Never again shall I attempt 
to catch — even by the tail — a snake of this or any 
other species. 

The only other poisonous snake in Florida that 
I know of is the IVIoccason — sometimes spelled 
" moccasin," and again, at greater length, Trigon- 
ocepliabis piscivorus. If any of my readers, young 
or old, do not know what this means in English, 

I, fresh from the Latin dictionary, am proud to be 
able to inform them that we are to understand it as 
saying that the moccason has a three-cornered head 
and is fond of fish. This being so, it is fortunate 
for him that he is an expert swimmer and diver, 
and we see why he becomes a frequenter of swamps 
and marshy places. Perhaps they are called moc- 
casons because they are found under our feet, and 
are so likely to wrinkle and become uncomfortable 
if we walk on them much. 

I have seen and shot many moccasons. In my 
tramps among the marshes and along the swampy 
shores of the Banana, after ducks, I never failed 
to take a shot at a moccason — no matter ho w scarce 
my ammunition — even at the risk of alarming bet- 
ter-flavored game. I must confess, indeed, to bear- 
ing malice toward the moccason ; but I killed the 
first one in ignorance of what I was killing. It was 
on Lake lammonia, in northern Florida, where 
Alice and I were spending a few days gunning and 
fishing. An old negro, whom folk down there 
called Uncle Peyton, was poling us for "blue- 
peters" (known to us of the North and to ornithol- 
ogy as "coots") through or rather over a long 




Stretch of swamp, — Florida lakes generally are 
little more or less than swamps — when Alice 
called my attention to a curious-looking head, 
seemingly that of a young alhgator, just visible 
above the mudd\-, weedy water. My eyes did not 
readily catch the object, and I impatiently de- 
manded, "li'/urf?" She pointed and held her 
finger within three inches of what might have 
been a brightly polished and glistening Brazil-nut; 
and she would have essayed the capture of what- 
ever lay below had not the boat, still gliding on, 
carried us too far beyond. After sending a charge 
of shot back (to keep the thing there by " ballast- 
ing it with a little lead " ), we poled back to the 
place and picked up a "swamp moccason " (popu- 
larly called "blunt-tail," from the stumpiness of 
that part of his body). It was more than five feet 
in length. Lucky was it, indeed, that Uncle Pey- 
ton's pole propelled Alice's indexing hand beyond 
that fateful head ! 

But all this while 1 have been beguiled away 
from the tale I had more immediately in view when 
this writing began — a diamond-back's ! 

One day I was floating around in the Banana, a 
few yards from shore — not for deer, nor for 
pleasure. I had gone out for a sail. But it was in 
one of those delightfully primitive " home-made " 
boats which abound on this river, and which sail 
equally well whether bow foremost or stern fore- 
most. Equally well, 1 say, but their best is bad. 
This boat would not beat to windward at all, and I 
was too lazy to row. 

I was waiting in the hope that an alligator or 
big turtle would perhaps obligingly tow me to 
the shore, when from the direction of the house 
tiiere came a succession of sharp, ringing shots, 
evidently the reports of a rifle. And with these 
came the screams of children, the barking of a 
dog, and other evidences of an unusual commo- 
tion. This was, remember, on the third da)- after 
our arrival in the Land of Flowers. There were 
no Indians about, and it did not seem possible that 
the house could be besieged by bears ; though, 
failing some such e.xplanation as the presence of 
large game, I could not surmise \\hat this rifle- 
fusillade meant. I attempted to pole to the 
shore, but it soon became evident that Harry's 
boat was no more true to the pole than to her 
course in beating to windward ; so, to solve the 
difficulty, I stepped overboard and waded ashore. 
The fun was all over by the time I came on the 
field ; but there, in the path that led from house 
to river, lay a veritable diamond-back, dead ; 
one bullet through his neck, his spine broken 
by another, and his tail lacerated by a third. 
It turned out that while the children, with " Fan- 
nie "' (a favorite Gordon setter-dog), were running 

down to the water, the dog — ahead, as usual — 
" pointed " at something in the grass, just out 
of the path. Hastening up, in the expectation of 
flushing a quail, or perhaps a rabbit. Dotty (my 
daughter, aged eight) found this big diamond-back 
on the alert and ready for business. As an armed 
pirate lights its battle- lanterns, clears its decks, and 
beats to quarters, so this terrible cruiserof the land 
had kindled his eyes into flame, disposed his body 
in a coil, and sprung his portentous rattle. Luck- 
ily, our " Dot," who had visited museums in St. 
Augustine, well knew what all this meant, and 
prepared to beat a retreat, calling on "Fan" to 
follow. But that innocent creature, all unfamiliar 
w ith diamond-backs, had the curiosity of her sex, 
and invited a nearer approach to see if the thing 
were dangerous or not. So, as the snake was but 
a few feet off, and time was precious, and the story 
of Eve and Eden and the tempter too long to tell, 
"Dot" caught the dog by the tail, and dragged 
her up-hill and out of danger. Meanwhile, the 
alarm had been given at the house, and a gentle- 
man, who happened to be at home, re-enforcing the 
party with a rifle, the reptile was soon dispatched. 
In measurement it fell short of seven feet b)' only 
one inch. And we all thought it a rather large 
snake to find within a hundred feet of our dwelling- 
house, and almost in the path that we daily trav- 
eled in going to and from the river. The Herr 
Doctor thought so, too ; but, in his seven- 
teen years on the place, he had seen but three 
diamond-backs, and these were miles from the 
house. Uncanny enough the great snake looked 
when hung up for skinning, but less formidable so 
than when coiled and rattling an alarm of death 
with every vibration of its tail. And you may be 
sure that during that night, and for several nights 
thereafter, I held my little girl very closely in my 
arms before we put her to bed, and that limits were 
promptly set to the children's explorations of fields 
and groves. 

As already stated, this was the third day after 
arrival at our lovely winter home. Thereafter, 
following the trail over to Georgiana — whither we 
went for letters — or threshing through the brush 
in quest of quail, I stepped very high indeed. 
Viewing me from a distance, one might have 
thought I walked on stilts. And I wore either the 
heaviest of canvas leggins or the stoutest of 
hunting-boots, even when hunting butterflies. If 
a rat stirred in the grass, I started' and listened 
anxiously for a resumption of the "rattle." But 
never a sign of a diamond-back did I see nor hear 
in all my tramping over Merritt's Island, — and that 
I beat the brush well during my four months' 
sojourn, my full bags of game fully attest. Nor 
did I meet any one else who had seen a diamond- 



back — though all wished to meet one, or, at least, 
said that they did. We who lived at the Herr 
Doctor's were accounted singularly fortunate ; it 
was held that our " rattler " was a show, a cir- 
cus, a private exhibition gotten up by the Herr 
Doctor for the delectation of his guests; and that 
it could not be duplicated, because there were no 
more diamond-backs on the Island. 

The nearest to a gratification of their curiositv 
that any resident of Georgiana got was when I one 
day went over for the mail, taking dog and gun 
along, as usual. The post-master's yard — which 
served, also, as garden — was but a blank space of 
white sand. Across this stretch of white, in strange 

"out of sight, out of mind." Seeing none for 
months, they become as traditions, even to us at 
the Doctor's. Meanwhile, however, a sad story of 
a diamond-back came to us, brought by a tourist 
from the gulf-coast. It was as follows : 

An elderly gentleman from New York was out 
near Punta Rassa, still-hunting for deer. He wore 
neither boots nor leggins, merely low shoes. 
After some dexterous maneuvering, he contrived 
to get within gun-shot of a deer. But, just as he 
was raising his rifle to his shoulder, he heard a 
rattle near him, and knew that another hunter was 
also taking aim. Without waiting to ascertain 
whence came the warning, or where the am- 


contrast to it, a tremendous black snake was gallop- 
ing. Calling to the inmates of the house, who ran 
out in response to the clamorous barking set up by 
my dog, I inquired if they wished the snake killed. 
The answer was an eager affirmative. Very soon 
that snake was stretched out — and I must confess 
to a feeling of disappointment when I got home 
and found that it was not the Herr Doctor's big 
pet. For chickens were not very plentiful on our 
table, at best, and I always had a suspicion that 
the black monster got more than his share of the 
poultry. The Georgiana reptile was about the 
same size as the Doctor's delight, measuring some 
six feet in length. But as for diamond-backs : 

bushed enemy lay, he instinctively stepped back- 
ward. And as he did so, the bolt was sped — he 
felt a sharp stab in the back of his leg, just below 
the bend of the knee. Knowing only too well what 
this meant, he turned and riddled the head of 
the snake — two good shots met that morning on 
that fatal piece of upland, near Punta Rassa. But 
the human duelist had but little to boast of. His 
guide, who came up \\hen the shot was fired, sucked 
the wound, tied a handkerchief tightly above it to 
keep the venom from going into the circulation, and 
putting gunpowder upon, and into, the wound, ig- 
nited it. But all in vain. After lingering in great 
agony for a while, the poor gentleman died. 





Judge B., a naturalist, a correspondent of the 
Smithsonian Institution, a collector of land-taxes 
by official position, and of rattlesnakes and other 
snakes by inclination, was present, and heard the 


he says, while the moccason will strike at anything 
— a stick, or a shadow — and strike all around it. It 
will strike at anything out of reach, not seeming to 
care whether it misses or not. The diamond- 


Story. By way, perhaps, of enlivening and 
cheering up the company, he spoke with a con- 
tempt he could hardly conceal of those who feared 
even diamond-backs. He had captured hundreds 
of them (in proof of which he referred to the col- 
lection at the Smithsonian Institution), and had 
handled them without injury. Given, a snake, a 
forked stick, and a bag, the fate of that snake was, 
with him, only a question of minutes — not many 
ininutes, at that. A wiggle or two, and he had the 
wiggler in the bag. But to the dcadliness of the 
diamond-back's fangs he bore ample testimony. 
" An excellent marksman, it seldom misses its aim," 

back, on the contrary, seems to mean business. 
" If you hold a stick toward him," said the 
Judge, "he does not strike at the stick — but at 
jon. If you are not within range, he does not strike 
at all. If he does strike at you, the chances are 
nine to one that he scores a hit. And to be struck 
deeply, or near a large vein or artery, means 
death — death, in spite of aid or antidote." 

The Judge further told us that he usually carried 
in his pocket-book, as a curiosity, a fang of the 
largest rattlesnake he had ever seen. He showed 
this one day to a friend, who handled it rather 




"I warned him," said the Judge, "but he 
laughed, saying that once out of the snake's mouth 
the fang was but a bit of bone, and he offered to 
scratch his hand with it. I repUcd that his widow 
might have cause of complaint against me if I 
allowed him to experiment, and suggested that he 
try the fang on some small animal instead. 

" He had a beautiful setter-dog. ' Here, Ponto! ' 
he called. ' For mercy's sake ! — try it on some- 
thing you care less for,' I said. 

"Too late! Ponto came at the call. But, in- 
stead of the expected caress, his master pricked 

the mercury of the thermometer crawled down 
nearly to freezing-point, but only to speedily re- 
bound. Green peas and most other vegetables, out 
of season in their greenness, throughout the winter. 
Game of all sorts — provided you can bag it. 
And the plumed birds ! I blush now to think of 
it, arid them. But my heart was then steeled 
by the importunity of fair friends for blue herons 
to mount, .pelican breasts for muffs, and egret 
plumes for their hats. One day Harry and I made 
an excursion up New Found Harbor — for plumed 
birds. In the large boat Mineola, we sailed as 


his nose with the fang. Ponto whined and bounded 
off, taking it for a jest. 

" But, in half an hour, he was dead ! 

" And if an3'body would like to experiment, I 
have the fang still ! " The Judge took out a white 
and glistening tooth and held it up for inspection. 
But no one even asked to see it more closely. 

The winter passed, and a lovely winter it was. 
To see Nature in her rarest, loveliest moods, one 
should go to the Indian River. "Blizzards" and 
hail, here at the North ; sunshine and oranges, 
there. An occasional " cold spell," perhaps, when 

far as the water would permit, and then taking 
to our skiff, poled possibly four or five miles up 
the farther bayou. AUigators showed their great 
goggle-eyes on all sides of us, but we were after 
plumes, not skins. Ducks flew unheeded past, 
within easy reach, but we were not out for game. 
The wiliness, though, of the artful heron ! In the 
spring of the year, when in full plumage, birds of 
the heron kind, you must know, are as careful of 
their fine feathers as ever a girl was of a " party- 
dress." Never, then, do they alight among weeds 
and rushes that would fray, nor in mire that would 




draggle, their "trains." Off sandy points, that com- 
mand the river for a mile up and down, or near the 
middle of the creek, where they can have an eye 
on all sides, they poise their lean bodies upon one 
leg, and keep solitary watch. At the first dip of a 
paddle, or the first glimpse of a boat's nose, away 
they go ! — their long legs trailing behind them 
like banners, and their harsh voices squawking 
unmusical farewells. On this occasion, our trip 
was barren of satisfactory results. I got a couple of 
"snake-birds" — one of which came down from a 
great height in answer to the call of my little 
twelve-bore gun — a number of green herons, a 
few least bitterns, and some very line grackle, for 
mounting; but the one great blue heron that we 
managed to secure was in poor plumage, and not 
worth the powder expended on it. So, rather 
tired, and very disappointed, we were returning 
home late in the evening, and it was already dark. 
At a bend in the river, we suddenly caught the 
sound of a great croaking and squawking near by. 

" That 's a lot of herons, roosting; let 's find 
'em," said Harry. 

Anchoring the big boat, we put off in the skiff. 
Guided by the noise, we found ourselves near a 
small island. It was too dark to see anything dis- 
tinctly, but dozens of white ghosts seemed to be 
roosting in the mangroves, and the croaking was 
unmistakable. " One ! two ! ! three ! ! ! " and at 
the word, we fired ! As a result, we gathered up 
fifteen white egrets, five small blue herons, and two 
Louisiana herons, all in the fullest and most per- 
fect plume. It was a piece of brutality, rather 
than sportsmanship, and I write out this humili- 
ating confession by way of penance and as a w arn- 
ing to others. It is with great pleasure, and some 
pride in the weapon, that I further record that my 
gun " kicked " me wofuUy, and left with me a lame 
shoulder and bruised and blue cheek-bone, for a 
week. That I ought to have been kicked, I '11 
admit; for this was a terrible piece of "potting." 
But we had had very hard luck that day ; our 
bags were nearly empty ; Florida is far, far away, 
and I never expected to see New Found Harbor 
again. Now — having all the plumes I want for 
the balance of my life — I have finally resolved 
never to do so more. 

But (to return once more to my diamond-backs, 
from which subject I will not again diverge) after 
a pleasant four months in Paradise, Ave were pack- 
ing for the North. The plumed birds, ducks, 'pos- 
sums, 'coons, and almost all other wearers of fur or 
feathers, were no doubt in high glee over our ap- 
proaching departure and with undisguised interest 
and impatience watched from afar for our going. 
Mrs. Paul was reading, for perhaps the thousandth 
time, the story of the " Temptation in the Gar- 

den." The day was Sunday, and in three more 
days we were to go. A loud squeak attracted our 

" What can that be ? " said Mrs. Paul. 

" The Doctor's black pet must have captured a 
rat," I replied. Now, Mrs. Paul, who is very fond 
of natural history, has always been curious to know 
how a snake can manage to swallow a creature 
larger in circumference than itself; and an oppor- 
tunity of this kind was not to be missed. So over 
she hurried to where the Herr Doctor sat, with his 
wife and brother, on the kitchen steps, and begged 
him to make invcstig.itions. The Doctor said that 
the cry was uttered by one of the pet rabbits that 
had just come limping out from under the dining- 
room steps, having evidently caught its leg in 
some entanglement there, and hurt it. At the 
suggestion that possibly his black-snake's jaws 
were the entanglement encountered by " Brer 
Rabbit," the Doctor got up, took a long stick, and 
poked about in the grass and under the steps; 
but without finding anything. So all returned 
to their places. Not ten minutes later, hearing 
smothered expressions of surprise from the group 
on the kitchen steps, and amazement not un- 
mingled with horror, I looked up. Never shall 
I forget the sight that met my eyes. Slowly 
crawling out from under the dining-room was an 
immense diamond-back ! Exactly how large he 
was, I learned afterward ; but he then seemed to 
me as big around as a barrel. The sluggish- 
ness with which he moved, the deliberation with 
which he dragged his slow length along, his 
great head raised the while in air, looking in- 
quiringly about for something he had evidently 
lost or expected to find, all made a picture well 
worth the seeing. No hurry in his motions, not a 
sign of alarm in his demeanor. Evidently he 
was looking for the rabbit he had struck — certain 
that he would find it somewhere, and not very far 
off. It is said that these snakes have an exquisite 
sense of smell, by which they can follow a victim's 
track with the unerring certainty of sleuthhounds. 
This one seemed to know just where he was going 
and for wdiat he was looking. And, hungrily 
anxious for the dinner he had taken means to se- 
cure, — unconscious that in securing it he had 
committed a crime, — on he came ; seemingly ignor- 
ing — certainly paying no heed to — the threaten- 
ing hands that were now raised against him. The 
world for him at that moment had but one inter- 
est, and that was dinner. 

I rushed to get my gun, but the Herr Doctor 
declared that this particular diamond-back must 
be fully eight feet long; that the Smithsonian 
Institution had for some time wished a specimen 
of that size ; and that he wished to secure the skel- 




eton for them. My shot would spoil the skull, 
he said. But think what a trophy for mc that 
diamond-back would have been — slain by my own 
red right hand, and by the same hand despoiled of 
head, rattles, and all ! It occurred to me that as the 
Smithsonian Institution had not spent four good 
months with the Herr Doctor, tramping among 
snake-infected jungles and marshes to supply the 
common table with duck, snipe, and other tooth- 
some game, my claim to the scalp, ornaments, 
and weapons of this individual snake ante-dated 
and outweighed any that could be set up by the 

But as there was not time to present any argu- 
ments, I said and did nothing. No doubt, the 
better plan would have been to shoot the snake 
first, putting iny side of the case afterward. 
And I determined to do this, when a dilemma 
of the kind again occurred. But meanwhile 
the Herr Doctor and his brother had fallen 
upon the snake — which, from the first, showed no 
fear nor misgiving, and neither attempted to make 
a coil nor spring a rattle — and with clubs they be- 
labored him to death. He measured when hung 
up to be skinned, seven feet and eight inches in 
length, and thirteen inches in girth ; and he had 
nine rattles and a "button." 

The skin, minus head and without rattles, 
adorns my gun-rack yonder, for the Herr Doctor, 
at the last moment of my departure, was moved 
— probably by an upbraiding conscience — to put 
the skin into my possession. The defect in the 
trophy, as a trophy, is that in exhibiting it to 
wondering and admiring friends, I can not truth- 
fully say that I, myself, killed the wearer of the 

As for the rest of the diamond-back, that was 
eaten, bones and all, by prowling animals of the 
night — so the Smithsonian never got the skeleton, 
after all. 

From the fangs of the monster as he hung, we 

forced, by pressing them back against the poison- 
bags behind thein, at least two tablespoonfuls of 
venom — a clear, scentless, almost colorless, though 
slightly amber-tinged, liquor. As this liquor, even 
when spilled upon the ground, is quite as dangerous 
and deadly as the blood of the fabled hydra, we 
carefully gathered up the earth, the grass, the 
sticks, everything on which a drop could by any 
possibility have fallen, burned all that would burn, 
and then buried the residue and the ashes. 

I must not omit to say that, searching for the 
rabbit, after his assassin was killed, we found the 
poor thing under our cottage, dead. Two small 
punctures in the fore-shoulder, about as large as 
would be made by No. 4 shot, showed where it 
was struck. After receiving the wound, it ran 
only about thirty feet. But though stone-dead and 
cold when found, scarce half an hour later, the 
body was not in the least swollen nor discolored, 
which contradicted what I had before been told of 
the effect of a snake -bite. 

Talking the affair over, it seemed strange and not 
particularly pleasant, to think that this python had 
been prowling about and under the dining-room, 
for no one knew how long, and that while we sat 
at dinner we had only the floor between our feet 
and his fangs. We must often have stepped 
over him in going to meals, as he lay hidden there 
under the piazza, quietly waiting for his dinner to 
come along. And perhaps the thought that such 
a monster could be so near, unsuspected un- 
til slain, rather mitigated our regret at leaving 
Paradise. But is it not strange that the only 
diamond-backs of the winter made themselves 
visible, one, three days after we came — the other, 
three days before we went ? Premeditation could 
not have planned it better, nor could the exhibi- 
tions of these peculiar products of "Paradise" 
have been more dramatically arranged if the 
leading idea had been to give us a thrilling recep- 
tion and a startling send-off! 




Bv Delia W. Lvman. 

" How I do hate to sew ! If aprons only ^■/r'w 
without any sewing ! " exclaimed Polly, with a 
deep sigh, as she dropped in her lap the little blue- 
checked gingham pinafore which her mother had 
given her to hem. She was sitting on a little 
wooden bench under a great pine-tree, not far 
from the house, — her favorite spot in all the big 

A moment after her impatient exclamation, a 
queer-looking little old man with a hump on his 
back appeared suddenly before her, and, to her 
great astonishment, remarked in a squeaky little 
voice : 

"Aprons do grow! 1 've just harvested my fall 

If he had not looked at her so kindly with 
his little twinkling gray eyes, Polly would have 
been afraid of the queer little dwarf; she was, 
however, so eager to hear more about his ex- 
traordinary crop of aprons that she did not run 
away at all, but, overcome with amazement, ex- 
claimed : 

"A crop of aprons ! Why, I never heard of 
such a thing ! " 

"Well," said the Dwarf, "where I live, aprons 
and dresses, and coats, and hats, and all such arti- 
cles, grow as thick as blackberries. It was only 
yesterday I picked the very coat I have on, and 
if you don't believe it, look at the stem." 

In a twinkling off went his coat. Polly saw that 
it was quite new ; and, sure enough, there inside 
the collar, where every coat has a loop, she beheld, 
to her boundless astonishment, a kind of woolen 
stem ! 

"1 'd like to see that tree !" said Polly, with 

"Well, so you can," responded the Dwarf. 

" Is it far?" asked Polly, doubtfully. 

" Yes ; but you have only to put your thimble 
on your thumb, shut your eyes, and say, 

" ' Thimble, thimble, let me go 

Where those crops of aprons grow ! ' 

and, before you open them, you '11 be there." 

Without waiting to run and ask her mamma's 
permission, as she knew she ought to do, Polly 
eagerly put her thimble on her thumb, shut her 
eyes, and repeated the magic words. 

When she opened them again, the pine-tree had 
disappeared, and she found herself in a beautiful 
garden full of strange plants, the like of which she 
had never seen. 

" Come !" said the Dwarf, who was now dressed 
like a gardener and had a watering-pot in his 
hand; "come! Let us see the apron crop." 

Polly followed him through a gate into a field 
of what seemed to be corn-stalks. 

"Here's the Apron Field," said the Dwarf, 
plucking an odd kind of ear, from the end of which 



hung, instead of corn-silk, two unmistakable apron- 
strings. Hastily stripping off the outside husks, 
he gave to Polly the little roll which lay inside. 
When it was shaken out, there, to her intense sur- 
prise and delight, was the prettiest little white 
apron imaginable, all trimmed around with white 
lace and furnished with two long apron-strings. 
The Dwarf allowed Polly to amuse herself pluck- 
ing and opening the ears. She found first a 
blue-checked and then a cross-barred muslin 
apron, — now a long-sleeved and then a tiny bib- 
apron; each plant bore a different kind, and the 
aprons were little or big according as the ears were 
partly or fully grown. Polly's arms were nearly 
full of aprons, when the Dwarf said : 
"Come now and see the Hat Plant." 
A few steps brought them to a row of tall plants 
which had leaves somewhat like those of sun- 
flowers, but, instead of blossoms, each stem bore a 

"Oh, my!" exclaimed Polly with delight, for 
there were sailor hats, broad-brimmed garden 
hats, sun-bonnets, beavers, tiny bonnets, and all 
other kinds besides. The Dwarf let her pick all 
she wanted, and helped her select for her baby 
brother a little pink cap "just budding," and for 

"Oh, how be-n-u-ti-ful ! " cried Polly, as she 
ran from one patch to another, pulling violet rib- 
bons, pink, yellow, Uue, and cardinal ribbons, 
right up by the roots, — the roots themselves being 
as pretty as any other part of the ribbon, for they 
were delicate fringes of the same color. Polly 
noticed that all the watered ribbons grew in a 
little pool at the end of the field, and that the 
"waterings" or waves were made by the wind 
blowing the water in ripples against the ribbon- 

Polly's collection was now getting so large that 
the Dwarf motioned to another little gardener, who 
ran off and soon brought a queer-looking wheel- 
barrow, made of a big clothes-basket set upon 
two pincushion-wheels. With several yard tape- 
measures he strapped all Polly's pickings into it, 
and trundled it along after her wherever she went. 

As they left the Ribbon Field, Polly asked the 
Dwarf where he picked his coat. "Just over 
here," said the Dwarf, leading Polly, as he spoke, 
to an orchard of Jacket-trees. There she saw 
every kind of Jacket-tree — from those bearing 
nice, tender little baby-jackets, to the strong and 
fully developed overcoats for men. The coats 
were of all materials, and they hung, like the 


her father and mother two straw hats which were 
" quite ripe," as he expressed it. 

" Now we '11 go to the Ribbon Field to find trim- 
mings," said the Dwarf, leading Polly by a wind- 
ing way through the Hat Plant Garden to a field 
of ribbon-grass which grew just one yard high, 
and in patches of every imaginable color. 


Vol. XV.~i8. 

Dwarf's jacket, from astern inside the collar. The 
Overcoat-tree had a thicker bark, and was in every 
way a tougher tree than the others. 

" What are these funny bushes which grow all 
around under the Jacket-trees ? " asked Polly, 
after selecting a full assortment of coats to give to 
her father and her uncles. 




" Vest-bushes," replied the Dwarf; " they never 
grow except under the shade of Jacket-trees." 
He picked a fine broadcloth waistcoat as he spoke. 
" We have developed some remarkable fancy 
varieties," he continued proudly. "And do you 

trees, which bore gloves instead of leaves. The 
fingers and thumbs stuck out stiffly, just like the 
divisions of leaves. There were two gloves on each 
stem, making a pair ; and the stem was shaped 
like a glove-buttoner. There were kid-glove trees. 


sec under these vest-bushes this little dwarf shrub? 
This bears shirts, which are one of the most use- 
ful crops we have on the whole place." 

Polly, not feeling as much interested in shirts 
and vests as the Dwarf, ran on. Suddenly she 
stood quite still, and exclaimed : 

"Oh, my! What is that?" 

Before them was a wonderful tree which looked 
rather like Polly's great pine, except that it seemed 
made of silver, for it shone very brightly in the 

" That," replied the Dwarf, " is our Needle-tree. 
If anything has to be altered, we use these needles, 
which we call pine-needles. They only grow in 
the finest emery soil." 

" That 's what makes them so bright, I sup- 
pose," said Polly, as she carefully scooped up a 
handful of those lying on the ground. '' But 
what are these big, hard strawberries?" 

" They are emery-bags, which always spring up 
from emery soil, just as toad-stools do in your 
country. They almost always grow in the shape 
of strawberries." 

After supplying herself with plenty of emery- 
bags, Polly next followed the Dwarf to the Glove 
orchard. There she beheld some very strange 

silk-glove trees, and cotton-glove trees. The boughs 
being rather high, the Dwarf picked for the de- 
lighted and astonished Polly one pair of every kind 
and color. What amused her most were several 
queer trees which in summer produced mitts and 
in winter, mittens; and the Dwarf explained that 
they had raised this singular fruit by planting 
gloves which were half-ripe and not yet divided 
into fingers. 

They had returned to the garden, where the 
first thing Polly saw was a grape arbor. 

" Here are the Button-vines," e.xplained the 
Dwarf; " I '11 pick you a cluster." 

From a kind of grape-vine hung bright clusters 
of buttons ; here a bunch of mother-of-pearl, there 
one of black crochet-buttons ; here a cluster of 
steel, and there one of shoe-buttons. They grew 
to the stem by their shanks, and there were just 
six dozen of each kind in a cluster. 

"Oh, what a lovely button-string these will 
make," shouted Polly, as she ran about, picking 
bunch after bunch of many colors. 

Soon the Button-vines were left behind, and 
they came to another orchard. 

" Here," proudly remarked the Dwarf, " is our 
Dress orchard. We pride ourselves on our choice 



variety of dresses. We have three crops a year, to 
fit the winter, autumn, and spring styles ! By 
grafting one kind on anotlier, we have obtained 
some very rare and curious fashions. Sometimes 
a mere accident will produce a new and pretty 
style, — for instance, this variety of puffed-sleeve 
dresses resulted from an accidental lapping-over 
of that part of the dress when it was in the bud. 
Our choicest, rarest styles, — our 'Worth dresses,' 
we call them, — are raised under glass; and, of 
course, much care is required in putting trees so 
large as these, under glass." 

But our little country Polly did not know what 
"Worth dresses" were, nor did she care, for 
she was wholly absorbed in gazing around her. 
There were Wrapper-trees, Ball-dress trees, Walk- 
ing-suit trees, Baby-dress bushes and a dozen 
other kinds. 

The second little Dwarf, who had by this time 
filled three wheelbarrows with Polly's pickings, 
now had to fetch another to carry the load of 
dresses which Polly, with the Dwarf's help, eagerly 
selected. She herself could not, of course, pick 
the right sizes so quickly as he, for he knew just 
where to find the bud dresses which fitted her, and 
the fully grown ones which suited her mamma. 

"Now tell me, how do handkerchiefs grow?" 
asked Polly, as they presently left the Dress 

" We 're just coming to the Handkerchief-bed," 
■said the Dwarf; and in a moment he stooped to 

eral dozens of various patterns, she and her two 
companions moved on to new wonders. 

The Collar-and-Cuff tree interested her greatly, 
for she found the collars and cuffs grew rolled up 
inside of a kind of chestnut-burr. She laughed 
outright when the Dwarf explained that " to turn 
out a good stiff fruit," the tree had constantly to 
be watered with thick starch-water mixed with 
a little blueing. 

On a stalk near by Polly found cuff-buttons 
growing like peas in a pod, and she amused her- 
self for some time shelling a quantity of them just 
as if they had been peas. It was odd enough to see 
gold, silver, pearl, and rubber cuff-buttons rattling 
into the pan which the Dwarf had given her to 
catch them as they fell. 

When she had shelled about a peck, she ran on 
after the Dwarf, who was pulling up from the 
grounds something which was like a potato-plant. 
Instead of a potato, Polly saw, when the dirt was 
shaken from what she would have called the roots, 
a perfectly-formed pair of shoes growing upon 
stems, with tendrils resembling fine silk shoe- 
strings. On examining these shoes, she found in 
each a little roll. She pulled it out as she would 
an almond from its shell, and there was a stock- 
ing just the right size for the shoe, and in the 
other shoe was the mate. Polly thought she 
should never tire of pulling up these fascinating 
plants, — finding boots, slippers, shoes, and even 
overshoes of all kinds. (There were, however. 


pick a kind of cabbage, the deUcate leaves of 
which proved to be the very finest of cambric 
pocket-handkerchiefs. Each fruit consisted of 
just a dozen handkerchiefs ; and, when these were 
picked off, Polly discovered in the heart, or core, 
of the plant a dainty little scent-bag, which im- 
parted to each handkerchief a delicate and deli- 
cious perfume. Having supplied herself with sev- 

no stockings in the overshoes.) When her last 
wheelbarrow was filled with shoes, she reluctantly 
quitted this delightful occupation and followed 
the Dwarf, who this time led her to a burying- 

"What in the world is that? " exclaimed Polly, 
looking at the queer little white grave-stones with 
which the ground was covered. 



The Dwarf pointed to the writing on one. At 
the top of the stone was a singular device, which 
at first appeared hke the skull and cross-bones so 
common on old tombstones; but on looking closer, 
Polly saw that it was a thimble, with an open pair of 
scissors beneath it. Below she read this epitaph : 

" Be filled with cheer, ye passers by, 
For here a Scissors Fictid doth lie! " 

"Oh, good!" exclaimed Polly, in great glee; 
" I am so glad some of them are dead, for they 're 
always stealing my scissors. If I drop them from 
my lap, I never can find them. I knew there were 
little fiends who carried them off! " 

Having now filled several wheelbarrows from 
these strange gardens, Polly asked the Dwarf if 
it were not now about time to go home again. 

"Oho!" said he; "so you want to go home, 
do you ? We never let anybody leave here who 
has not come with her mother's permission. Now, 
you never asked her at all, so I don't see how you 
can get away." 

" Oh, dear! " said Polly, beginning to cry ; for 

what did she care for all these pretty things, unless 
she could show them to her mamma ? 

She kept on crying until she suddenly noticed 
her thimble. Struck with a bright idea, she 
clapped it upon her thumb, shut her eyes, and 
exclaimed ; 

"Thimble, thimble, let me go 
Where crops of aprons never grow ! " 

When she opened her eyes, most v/onderful to 
tell, there she was again on her little bench under 
the great pine-tree, her sewing in her lap and her 
work-basket at her side. Not a trace of the Dwarf 
or her seven wheelbarrow-loads was to be seen ; 
v.'hether he wished to punish her for going without 
her mother's permission, or whether he was one of 
those stingy "Indian givers " whom Polly despised, 
she could not tell. In fact, as she rubbed her 
eyes, she could almost have thought the whole 
thing was a dream, except for one fact : her thivi- 
hle -loas on her thumb ! and what little girl in her 
senses ever wore it there ? So, it could n't have 
been a dream, could it ? 



By James Whitcomb Riley. 

Had, too ! " 

" Had n't, neither I " 
So contended Bess and May, — 

Neighbor children who were boasting 
Of their grandmammas, one day. 

Had, too ! " 

" Had n't, neither ! " 
Tossing curls, and kinks of friz, 
" How could you have two grandmothers 
When just one is all they is ? " 

Had, too ! " 

" Had n't, neither ! " 
All the difference begun 

By May's saying she 'd two grandmas. 
While poor Bess had only one. 

■ Had, too ! " 

" Had n't, neither ! 

'Cause ef you had two," said Bess, 

" You 'd displain it I " Then May answered: 
' My grandmas were twins, I guess ! " 

''-^n n-iKi-nr,, 

By Treadwell Walden. 

There scarcely has been a time in the history 
of London when there was not a bridge across the 
river Thames. Away back in Claudius Ca;sar's 
time, only forty-four years after Christ, — when the 
great city of to-day was the little Roman colony 
of Londiniiim, — there was 3. pout or bridge across 
the river ; and again and again, up to the year 
1 176, we hear of a wooden bridge being built, 
burned, or repaired, between the growing city and 
the Kentish shore. One of these was built in the 
year 994 by the exertions of a girl — Mary, the 
ferryman's daughter ; and it was destroyed in the 
year lOoS by a boy — Olaf, the northern Viking. 

Rut the Old Bridge of which 1 particularly wish 
to tell you is the massive stone roadway across 
the Thames that was built by order of King 
Henry II., and designed by the architect-priest, 
Peter of Colechurch. 

Through the reigns of Henry II., of Richard 
the Lion-Hearted and his base brother John, the 
bridge building went on, although, in 1205, 
after he had been at work upon its massive 
arches for twenty-nine years, Peter of Colechurch 
died and was buried in a tomb built in the central 

The bridge, as constructed by Peter of Cole- 
church, had twenty arches and a draw-bridge. At 
either end was a gate-house, and over the central 
arch was built a church or chapel, beneath which 
was the tomb of Peter, the priest and architect. 

This church was dedicated to Thomas a Beckct 
— whom, you may remember, Henry II. liked 
better after he was dead than when he was alive — 

and there a band of priests held service every day 
until the time of Cromwell and the Puritans. 

When Peter of Colechurch died, the merchants 
of London took up the work, and finished it, in the 
year 1209, in princely fashion. Its cost had been 
met by a tax upon wool, and hence it came to be 
said that " London Bridge was built upon wool- 
packs." So, though royal hands had something 
to do with its completion, you see that a free city 
had more, and that it owed most to the energy 
of its merchants and to the chief staple of their 

Very properly, then, the first thing to go over 
London Bridge was London itself The growing 
town spread itself across the Thames, and was 
there called Southwark. This was the beginning of 
the great suburb which now extends over all the 
country southward, as another does northward. 

And the larger these cities grew, the more im- 
portant became the bridge. For hundreds of years 
it was the only highway between them. Westmin- 
ster Bridge was not built until 1750, and more and 
more the strength of the metropolis centered in the 
older bridge, and poured over it; and more and 
more it came to be the common ground of kings, 
nobles, and people. This, too, you must bear in 
mind, as 1 take you along with me. 

Now, singularly enough, the first scene of any 
note which there took place was a collision be- 
tween a royal personage and the people. 

Ithappenedin 1263. Oueen Eleanor of Provence, 
the haughty wife of Henry III. (who got into 
many difficulties both with the barons and with the 





people, because he would violate the charter of his 
father, King John), one day started with great 
pomp, in a gilded barge, from the Tower which was 
below the bridge, for the royal castle at Windsor 
farther up the river. 

The Tower in those days had no enormous guns 


send out 
puffs of 
and jets 
of red 
flame in 
loud sa- 
lute whenever a monarch left its gates ; but it made 
a great display of gorgeous banners, and of steel- 
clad warriors on its battlements, when the gilded 
barge shot out into the stream. If Queen Eleanor 
had not sided, in a very insolent and unfeeling way, 
with the king and against the barons, whom the peo- 
ple considered their friends, all might have gone 
peacefully enough with the fair and sumptuous lady. 
But this was the period when the common people 
were awakening to their rights, and were losing their 
respect for kings, — especially for the king upou the 
throne, the weak son of the tyrannical John. 

The gilded barge sped onward, its stalwart row- 
ers bending to their oars, when, with the near 
approach to the bridge, came the serious question 
whether they could safely "shoot" the low central 
arch. It was always a dangerous place, and espe- 
cially so when the swift tide was rushing through. 

But, as they drew near the semicircle they found 
against them another and more threatening tide 
of opposition — of an unexpected kind. 

It was nothing less than the people themselves ! 
They swarmed upon the parapet, they pushed out 
in boats from behind the smaller arches on both 
sides ; and a shower of mud, and some harder mis- 
siles as well, came rattlingabout theroyalboat, strik- 

ing the rowers, and bespattering the resplendent 
queen. You may imagine the cries, the shouts, the 
reproaches with which also they assailed her in all 
her majesty, as they bade her go back; — and go 
back she did, mortified and enraged at the insult. 
But this was only one of many occurrences in 
this reign by which the royal family were 
taught to know what it cost to oppress and 
exasperate the people. The king, himself, wit- 
nessed his full share of such manifestations, as 
you shall hear. 

There was a certain powerful patriot and 
baron in the days of King Henry III., named 
Simon de Montfort. The king declared that he 
feared Lord Simon more than he feared 
thunder and lightning. There was reason ; 
the cloud of rebellion in the kingdom had 
begun to look very black ; the barons were 
its thunder, the people were the lightning, 
and Simon de Montfort, their leader, was 
the bolt which might at any instant fall. 

When at last it did descend, it fell at Lon- 
don Bridge. 

The king was in possession of the Tower, 
so Montfort marched for London with a great 
army; the barons wearing the white cross 
upon the back and front of their armor, as 
they had at Runnymede, to symbolize the 
holiness of their cause. They knew the 
populace of the city was in sympathy with 
them. The vanguard rode upon the bridge, 
but orders were given from the Tower, and the 
draw was pulled up, making it impassable. Then 
Simon de Montfort summoned the warders, and 
bade them lower the bridge. It was the voice of 
the people against the voice of the king. The 
citizens unloosed the chains, and the heavy draw 
came rattling into its place. 

The populace sided with the patriots, as de Mont- 
fort knew they would. The result was a pitched 
battle, fought at some distance from London, in 
which the king was defeated and made prisoner. 
But the greatest result of the revolution was, that 
when the barons again assembled in parliament, 
representatives of the "commons," as the people 
were called, met with them, and what is known as 
the House of Commons, which is to-day the real 
ruler of England, came into existence. 

When Edward I. came to the throne, he had 
learned wisdom by his father's experience. He 
proved to be a wise and good king, and the people 
were content. But his oppressive disposition was 
shown in another field. The king laid a heavy 
hand upon Scotland and crushed it. Down went its 
throne, over went its nobles. But its people «'ere 
at length aroused to resistance by the spirit of one 
man, William Wallace. 



After years of figliting, Wallace was betrayed, 
made prisoner, and brought to London. This was 
on August 5, 1305. Edward arraigned him as a 
traitor, in the judgment-hall at Westminster. The 
king even went so far as, in mockery, to crown the 
patriot wilh a garland of oak-leaves, to destroy 
his dignity as the defender of his country. He 
then had him hanged. With cruel barbarity, his 
body, cut in pieces, was sent to Scotland to carry 
terror to his adherents there ; but the noble head 
of the hero was set up on the northern tower of 
London Bridge. 

This was then a new use of the towers of the now 
ancient bridge, but it was only a beginning. As the 
years went on, many notable heads — sometimes 
those of the highest born nobles, executed for trea- 
son — were spiked to the parapet of the gate, to 
bleach in the sun, rain, and fog, a ghastly sight for 
.the crowd always passing beneath ; a sight more 

heralds bearing shields and spears, soldiers in 
shining helmets, green-coated archers, throng 
the bridge from one end to the other, pouring 
in upon it from the streets, pouring out from it 
over the road that leads to France, until the head 
of the glittering column is lost to sight. 

Who comes now? It is the grim King Edward; 
and, by his side, a golden-haired boy, not yet with 
helmet on, but wearing the plumed hat of a prince. 
His fair face is flushed with martial delight, as 
his horse prances beside the tall steed of his 
royal father. We know what is in his mind. He 
has had the promise of knighthood ! He is to win 
his spurs in battle across the channel. History 
tells the rest. The scene of the knighting, on the 
sand of the sea-shore ; the terrific battle of Crecy, 
won by the gallant boy, while his father looked on 
from the windmill ; and the capture of the triple 
tuft of ostrich feathers, which with the motto 


worthy of African savages than of a civilized king- 
dom ; and yet it was one which might be seen until 
almost within the memory of the living. 

It was about forty years after Wallace's death 
that the bridge saw two splendid pageants. 

The first was in 1346. 

The streets of London resound with the heavy 
tread of a mighty army, marshaled by Edward 
III. He is going to conquer France. What a 
show of banners and pennons : richly clad knights, 

" Ich dicii," has been borne ever since as the crest 
or device of the Prince of Wales. 

Now, eleven years have elapsed. Here is another 
pageant, but it is marching the other way. Far over 
the hills the army of England is seen on its return. 
London is bustling with preparation. The streets 
are filled with decorations ; the house-fronts are 
covered with rich tapestries and carpets, with 
shields and breastplates, and with all the bright 
weaponry of the day, arranged in rosettes, like great 




flowers of steel, — as we can now see them in the 
Tower. The day of peace has come. King John of 
France is expected, a prisoner in the hands of the 
Black Prince. 

The people of London are all in comity with 
King Edward, who has been a long time at home. 
They enter into the spirit with which he desires the 
occasion to be celebrated. The trade-guilds are 
out in all their insignia and costumes. At Edward's 

cloth of gold, is soon alive with the triumphant 
procession. The people's shouts almost drown the 
noise of the trumpets and clarions. 

It is the day of chivalry, of courtesy to the van- 
quished, of honor to the brave. It is not Edward 
the Black Prince who receives the ovation. He 
tries to keep out of siglit in the crowd, that all the 
glory may come to the King who remained fight- 
ing when his army had run ; to the boy who, when 


order, one thousand of the chief citizens come forth 
on horseback, crossing the bridge to meet the cap- 
tive king and do him honor. 

Amid a brilliant cavalcade he comes, more like 
a victorious than a vanquished prince. The great 
merchants close round him, doffing their hats and 
bowing low. The Tower booms with cannon. The 
bridge, all embowered with bright banners and 

his father stood fighting alone, defended him — 
the noble little French Knight, Sir Philip the Bold. 

Part II. 

Richard II. was, in some respects, as noble a son 
as even the Black Prince could have desired. He 
was very handsome, gallant, high-spirited, and 




brave ; full of the right-royal blood which becomes 
a line of kings. But he became a king too soon, 
and this spoiled him. He was only eleven years 
old when he mounted the throne. He was but 
sixteen when he quelled a mob which had rushed 
with terrible fury over London Bridge. The act 
had the heroic ring of true royalty, and he did it 
by a glance and a word. 

Imagine, if you can, a hundred thousand infuri- 
ated men, pouring out of the farms and villages 
of the counties below London, with Wat Tyler at 
their head, breaking into the streets of South- 
wark, and making for London Bridge. But the 
draw is pulled up, and with good reason. If once 
they should enter London, what would become 
of the city, — what would become of the king? 

It is now no pageant which throngs the old 
structure, but a maddened mass of the common 
people, who feel that they have been deeply 
wronged. Every boat has been taken to the other 
side. The bridge is the only way over, and the 
tide is rushing through the long gap made by the 
lifted draw. On the other end of the bridge stands 
William Walworth the Lord Mayor, with his mag- 
istrates, and the citizens armed for its defense. 
Above in the Tower stand Richard, his nobles and 
his prelates, looking down upon the exciting spec- 
tacle. But the boy-king feels no fear. 

The scene now before his eyes recalled another 
in strange contrast to it. Five years before, the citi- 
zens of London had thronged out, brought him 
over the bridge, and placed him in the Tower amid 
such a tumult of rejoicing as never before was 
known. The child had stared in wonder as he 
crossed the river into the capital of his kingdom, 
where the streets were thronged with glad faces to 
greet him, and the very fountains spouted Avine — 
and now, before his astonished eyes, here was a 
mob which, with its black mass, blotted out both 
bridge and river-banks, shrieking for vengeance 
against his throne. 

But such a flood of human might could not be 
stayed by a mere lifting of the bridge. They 
fiercely shouted, " Drop the draw ! " The chains 
rattled, barriers fell, the torrent burst over and 
soon covered the hill overlooking the Tower. This 
was on June 13, 1381. A herald from the king 
proclaimed that if they would retire to some dis- 
tance out of the city, he would come to meet them. 

He went out to them almost alone ; Wat Tyler, 
with his hand on his dagger, grasped the king's 
laridle — Lord Mayor Walworth instantly struck 
him down. Now, if ever, was the moment of dan- 
ger. The rebels drew their arrows to the head, 
when Richard, a beardless boy, but at that moment 
every inch a king, spurred his horse toward them. 
"Tyler was a traitor!" he shouted; "I will be 

your leader ! " His courage, his presence, over- 
awed them. Soon the citizens of London came in 
force to the rescue. The rebels fell on their 
knees and asked for mercy. 

If Richard had only been as true to his word as 
he was brave in giving it, what a leader to his peo- 
ple he might have been ! But he grew up to be a 
tyrant over both nobles and people; a king of 


pageants, banquets, and tournaments, only, with 
no thought but for his own pleasure and glory. I 
should be glad to dismiss him now, if it were not 
for two strange spectacles which, during his reign, 
took place on London Bridge; one of them will 
prove of especial interest to boys, the other will be 
better liked by girls. 

It was Saint George's Day, 1390, that King Rich- 
ard appointed for the first of these spectacles. A 
Scottish knight, named the Earl of Craufort, had 
a quarrel, or some dispute, with an English knight 
who had been ambassador to Scotland, named 
Lord de Wells. After the custom of those days a 
challenge passed between them, and they were to 
settle their difference by what was called a passage 
at arms. 

Such things were of considerable moment to the 
parties concerned, even if no more than a friendly 
struggle to see which was the better man. Tour- 
naments were the great amusement of the day, and 
they were often held at Westminster. Whether 
it was because one of the present combatants 
was from another country, and the nearest to 
neutral ground was required ; or whether it was a 
whim of the king to give the greatest possible num- 
ber of people a chance of witnessing the fray, no 
less dangerous a place was chosen for the combat 
than London Bridge. Here, accordingly, the lists 
were prepared. Tournaments on the water with 




boats were frequent, as well as tournaments on 
land with horses, but this was to be on neither 
land nor water. 

Of course they had no doubt that the English 
knight would knock over the Scotchman, for the 
knights of that country were not believed to be 

There was a great array on the bridge, the king 
and most of his nobles being present there : and 
the populace covered the shores. Lord Craufort 
rode into the lists accompanied by twelve knights, 
who had been given a safe-conduct to attend upon 

When everything was ready, the signal was given, 
they put spurs to their horses and, with their lances 
in rest, met in a fearful collision midway upon the 
bridge. The lances were splintered, neither man 
dismounted, but the Scotchman sat as immovable 
as a pillar of iron. The Englishman, though he 
stood it well, looked for a moment a little awry, 
like a tall stove that had lost one of its feet. This 
was rather a surprise to the Londoners. 

After they had recovered their breath, and the 
Englishman had been set upright again, the two 
withdrew for another charge. Again came the dash, 
and the clash, and the splinters, and the dust, and 
the horses on their haunches, — but there sat the 
two knights, the Scotchman as firm as the parapet, 
but the Englishman somewhat arched over his sad- 
dle-bow. The people cheered, but they were angry 
with the Scotchman. 

Then they drew off again. It was surely the 
best joust of the year. For the third time, 
they met. But this time Lord de Wells was 
hoisted out of his saddle, and landed on the hard 
pavement, like a mass of old iron. He could not 
even hear the cruel clang he made. His breath 
and his senses had been knocked out of him. 
He did not move a limb. Neither for an instant 
did the Scotchman, who, having reined in his horse, 
looked grimly down upon the ruin he had made. 

Such defeat would never do. The enraged and 
ungenerous spectators raised the shout, " He 's tied 
to his horse ! " " He 's tied to his horse ! " Where- 
upon the knight lightly vaulted from his steed, and 
discomfited his accusers at once, — and what did he 
then? \'ault back again, amid the loud plaudits 
they could not forbear to give ? On the contrary, 
he turned his back upon his horse, and going 
quickly to the fallen knight, lifted him tenderly, 
and took off his helmet to give him air, while the 
king and all the rest thought he was going to ply 
the dagger, as was now his privilege. The chivalry 
in his brave heart proved to be as true as was the 
stroke of his iron arm. His heart had warmed to 
his gallant adversary, and to the amazement of every 
one, he watched by the sick bed of his foe for three 

months thereafter, until Lord de Wells was mended 
of all his ills. 

On November 13th, 1396, King Richard, having 
been on a visit to the French court, returned with 
a new wife. This was the second time he had cel- 
ebrated a matrimonial pageant on London Bridge; 
and though the former occasion had been as gor- 
geous as was then thought possible, this cele- 
bration easily surpassed the by-gone splendor. 
He had made both a great match and a little 
one. His bride was Isabel, the daughter of the 
king of France. Every Londoner, with his wife, 
was out, of course. So was every Englishman 
who could get there. Such a concourse, such a 
crush, such an e.\citement, had never before been 
known. Nine people were trampled to death on 
the bridge. The crowd at the tournament had 
been nothing to this. What was the attraction ? 
Was it the extraordinary splendor of the pageant ? 
No. Was it to welcome the king back? — they 
wished he had never come back. The rumor that 
caused it had come on the wings of the wind, say- 
ing that the king, now a man of thirty, was bring- 
ing home a tiny queen of eight years old ! Fresh 
from the nursery, — perhaps with her doll in her 
arms, — the bright little French princess was com- 
ing to London. This was enough to draw the mul- 
titude. St. Nicholas some years ago contained 
a pretty sketch of the fairy creature, whose husband 
had to take her up in his arms whenever he would 
kiss her. But she did not wear her toy crown long, 
for Richard in three years more had lost his own, 
and she returned to France, a petite widow of 
eleven, to look back on an experience as wonderful 
as a child ever had. 

I am glad, now, to turn to a nobler king, and to 
a more famous event on London Bridge ; to a king 
more gallant than any who ever sat on the English 
throne — Harry of Monmouth — the victor of Agin- 
court. The school-boys attending service in West- 
minster Abbey have, from generation to genera- 
tion, looked up at his helmet, shield, and saddle, 
where they hang high above his tomb ; and they 
do so even to this day with a thrill of enthusiasm 
for the hero of that famous battle. 

But it was London Bridge which could best tell 
how England felt about Agincourt. It had been 
another Crecy and Poictiers — couriers had spurred 
across the bridge, with news of ten thousand 
Frenchmen killed, of fourteen thousand taken pris- 
oners, and all with a loss of only forty Englishmen. 
The news had come before the dawn, while the 
Londoners were still in their beds. But they ran 
to the churches, and in ten minutes every bell in 
London was ringing a joyful peal. A few weeks 
later, they heard of his landing at Dover, and of 
how the people had rushed into the water and borne 




him ashore. And so the excitement grew, until 
they heard he was close at hand. Then came the 
magnificent pageant of his reception. 

Twenty thousand citizens went over the bridge 
and down the road to meet him ; all of them, as 
usual, in the picturesque costumes of their trades. 
These tradesmen were organized into " guilds," 
as they were called, which were privileged, and all 


very rich. They escorted him through South- 
wark to the bridge, which presented a gorgeous 
sight. They had got up what was then distinctively 
called a " Pageant," upon it, wherein, after the 
curious taste of those days, were all sorts of figures 
and emblems, and rebuses ; these, when put to- 
gether, like the letters of the alphabet, gave out a 
great amount of meaning. On the gate-tower, 
conspicuous among them, stood a giant, — one 
" that was full grim of might, to teach the French- 
men courtesy." 

The procession formed for crossing the bridge ; 
the lord mayor and aldermen, in scarlet gowns 
and red and white hoods, took their places about the 
youthful concjueror ; the " guilds " followed; the 
nobles, in splendid attire, completed the show. The 
trumpets and the horns sounded, the people 
shouted, the wind waved the bright banners over 
the Tower, and the bridge itself seemed lifted up 
with pride, as the glorious 
array passed under arch after 
arch of triumph spanning its 

And the show on the bridge 
was only what was in all the 
streets, for three miles, until 
Westminster Palace was 
reached. Young girls and 
young men were foremost of 
all in showering laurel-boughs 
and gilded leaves upon Prince 
Hal's handsome head. Some 
played musical instruments, 
others sang anthems and 
songs. Behind the lattices 
were ladies and gentlemen, 
dressed in crimson, fine linen, 
and gold. The streets, like 
the bridge, were so densely 
crowded that the horsemen 
could scarcely make their way. 
And, amid it all, the king 
in his purple robe rode along, 
— solemn, thoughtful, and 
devout, revolving yet greater 
plans, and thanking God for 
what he had been enabled to 
do. For, with all his glory, 
England had never a more 
high-minded king than he. 
He felt that Providence in- 
tended him to achieve a yet 
more wonderful work in 
France, for that country was 
in a fearfully distracted state. 
And this made him soon 
return thither, to carry on 
the war. Within seven years more, he had won 
the crown of France, he had married the French 
princess, and he had nearly restored to that land 
order and peace. Paris was as delighted with him 
as London had been. The cup of his success was 
fast filling to the brim, when it fell from his hand. 
He died in what seemed the midst of his great 

What a gloom now fell upon London Bridge, 
when the black-robed courier came riding over it, 
with the sad burden of this news ! What a pall lay 



over the city when it heard that a funeral caval- 
cade, with measured steps and slow, was crossing 
France, from Paris to Rouen, and from Rouen to 
Calais ! Soon a fleet bore his body to Dover, and 
now the citizens awaited the solemn, melancholy 
spectacle, which day following day brought nearer 
and nearer. The bridge was hung with black, as the 

tlie city, and struck his sword on London Stone,* 
shouting, " Now is Mortimer lord of the city! " 
and followed this claim by pillaging rich mansions, 
and other acts of violence, then his popularity 
ended, excepting among the mob where it began. 
He retired to Southwark, but was resolved to 
enter the city again. This the citizens determined 


funeral car passed over it, bearing a waxen figure 
of the king, in his robes of majesty, and sur- 
rounded by chanting priests, in white vestments, 
and knights and esquires in black armor. The 
young warrior's three chargers followed, and when 
the coffin was carried through the gates of West- 
minster Abbey, and up the long nave, those war- 
horses were led up to the very steps of the altar. It 
is the saddle of one of them which now hangs, 
with the king's armor, above his splendid shrine. 
As a contrast to all this, we may stop a moment 
to see what happened at the bridge, only eighteen 
years after, during the weak reign of King Henry's 
son. It is the scene when London was defending 
itself against the followers of Jack Cade; a notori- 
ous fellow of common origin, who took the high- 
born name of Mortimer, and ran a curious race, as 
such upstarts always do. At first. Cade was popu- 
lar with the citizens of London; but when, with 
vulgar ambition, he rode across the bridge, into 

* A prehistoric monument, thought by some to be 

he should not do. They removed the draw, and 
barricaded the bridge. The insurgents made a 
grand rush upon it one Sunday night. But the 
Londoners were prepared, and the garrison of the 
Tower came down to their help. The fight lasted 
all night long; nor did it stop until nine o'clock 
next morning. Then Cade drew off his men. 

They soon after dispersed, and deserted him. A 
large reward was set upon his head. Then there 
was a great chase, and at last he was caught. So 
he did get over London Bridge, after all ; that is, 
his head was set over the northern entrance — 
a kind of eminence he had not desired, but which 
was then thought to be very fitting for him. 

Let us now pass on in our account to the reign 
of Henry VIII. If we were to linger long over 
this reign, we should be dazzled with pageants. 
There seems no end to them. 

There is, first. King Henry going over in gor- 
geous pomp to make war in France. The records 

a landmark from whicli distances were measured. 




fairly take our breath away with tlicir accounts of it, 
Again, a few years after, Henry crossed to meet 
Francis I. on "The Field of the Cloth of Gold," 
the very name of which hints at the display of splen- 
dors on the way. In 1527, Cardinal Wolsey went 
over upon an embassy to France, in so glorious a 
style as to outshine the king himself; for he added 
the magnificence of a cardinal-prince of Rome to 
the grandeur of being Lord Chancellor in the 
Court of England. Then we hear of an imposing 
embassy from France, coming to invest Henry with 
the Order of St. Michael. In due time, Anne 
Boleyn appears on the bridge, riding beside 
Henry, to visit France. It was just after their re- 
turn that they were secretly married. In 1544, 
Henry goes over again; but now to fight Francis, 
of " the Cloth of Gold," his former friend, and he 
crosses the channel in a ship the sails of which 
were made of cloth of gold. You can see his 
effigy to-day in the Tower armory, "armed at all 
points, upon a pied courser," just as he appeared 
when he set out. And here let us leave him. He 
was a great showman, but ue can turn from him 
without regret. 

But were I to tell of all whom he made to pass ini- 

highway " between the great judgment-hall at 
Westminster, and the Tower; and that the Tower 
had a gate opening on the water, called the Traitors' 
Gate. Need I tell you more ? Think of the con- 
demned men, who came down in boats with the 
headsman's a,\e turned toward them, stooping their 
heads as the axe itself was lowered while they shot 
under the low arch of the bridge into the gloomy 
archway of their prison. The sight was nothing 
new, and it did not end for many years ; but the 
reign of Henry saw so much of it as to give me 
occasion for mentioning it now. 

But my space is diminishing so fast that 1 must 
hasten on. Suppose we stop, a moment, and look 
at another insurrection with which the bridge again 
had something to do. It was in 1554. There 
was a rising of the "Men of Kent," under Sir 
Thomas Wyat, against Queen Mary. They were 
opposed to her to the throne, — as they had 
good reason to be. Wyat, with two thousand 
men, came toward London Bridge. The guns of 
the Tower blazed away at them over the river, but 
nobody was hit. When he reached the bridge, its 
gates were closed and its draw had been cut away. 

There were signs of great confusion in the city. 


der 'London Bridge, you would think him a bloody- The shops were shut, the women were shrieking, 
minded villain. I do not care to emphasize it ; but and the men were running about, seeking for 
you may know that the Thames was the "silent weapons. Now appeared a proclamation offering a 







(By permission of 

thousand pounds for Wyat's head. To defy them Queen Mary had triumphed, but Wyat's act 

the more, he stuck his name in large, bold letters on brought Lady Jane Grey to the block, and came 

his cap — Thomas WvAT. Three days passed, near causing the death of Elizabeth ; and London, 

The bridge would not let him over. Then he went to please the queen, now made great preparations to 


up the river and crossed in boats, coming down that receive King Philip of Spain, the proposed hus- 

way to the city. But all its gates were closed band of Mary, as he came over the bridge ; — this 

against him. He had a fight at Temple Bar, and was the very man against whose coming Sir Thomas 

then had to yield himself a prisoner. Wyat had struggled. 




the New Shakspere Society.) 

Never was London Bridge so full of gibbets, 
never the bridge so covered with heads, as after 
this rebellion. Bloody Mary began to win her 

It perhaps surprises you that Sir Thomas Wyat 
could have been so easily stopped by the bridge at 
that time. If it had been an open roadway, it 
could not have stopped him; but it was covered 
with tall houses, some of them three and four 
stories in height. They were dwelling-houses and 
shops, ranged along on both sides, and over- 
hanging the parapets. The street between them 
was a narrow archway, only twelve feet wide, with 
wider spaces at intervals for foot-passengers to get 
out of the way of the vehicles. London had not 
only gone over the bridge, but had settled down 
upon it. This had occurred several times before, 
but the houses were but shanties and had been re- 
moved. Now, however, they were of quite a stately 
character. You may imagine its odd appearance, 
and wonder how a decent city could allow such 
an incumbrance along its greatest thoroughfare ; 
but it was the way in those days. Everything was 
crowded together. The city itself was a jam of 
houses, with but narrow, crooked streets. 

In the reign of Charles II. there came a sudden 
relief to this state of things upon the bridge — and 
a relief which made as summary a change in the 
metropolis. A terrific fire broke out, which 
burned down almost the whole of London. It 
began near the bridge, and then spread away in 
all directions. After a while it swept round and 
came back, plunging down the hill in a billow of 
flame, laying hold of the houses on the bridge, and 
leaving it nearly as bare as when it was built. 

This was one of the bridge's wildest experiences. 
It had always been on the lookout against the water, 
and was prepared to let everything go over it, except 

rebels and such people. But the fire was a friendly 
enemy, and the bridge yielded a passage to it very 
gladly, we doubt not, when the fire offered to re- 
lieve its old back from the burden of all those 
houses. It had nothing to fear for itself, though 
perhaps its aged stony spine might have been 
a little scorched. 

The old bridge stood one hundred and seventy 
years after this, and looked on a London built much 
more substantially than ever before. It still bore 
up the increasing tides of its life, flowing back and 
forth, and was more and more famous every year, 
as its history grew more ancient and the people 
remembered what wondrous sights it had seen. 

No longer now did its quaint old form appear 
in grave history only, but also in chronicles and 
stories, in romances and novels, and even in 
nursery tales; for it was interwoven with the joys 
and sorrows, the lights and shadows, of city life. 
Artists even found that they could never draw a 
true picture of London without putting in Old 
London Bridge. It has been pictured in many 
ways, by daylight and by moonlight, in the dark- 
ness of midnight and amid the mists of deep fogs. 

The fame of it has gone everywhere, and can 
never pass away. Its traditions still linger close 
beside the magnificent granite structure which 
now spans the river in its stead. Some day you 
may stand on the parapet of the new bridge, and 
look at the place where the old bridge used to be, 
two hundred feet nearer the Tower ; a place that 
will know it no more, except as it may be the 
haunt of an invisible ghost of the bridge, over 
which I have just tried to take )'0U in a dream- 
walk, covering six hundred long years. 

But do you know that its memory — the mem- 
ory of its fame in the days gone by — has already 
been among you, in a way that you have proba- 



bJy never suspected ? What would you say if 1 
could prove that the bridge went over the At- 
lantic ocean to America generations ago ? What 
would you say if 1 could show it to you in one of 
the very games which you have played — perhaps 
are playing now to amuse the little ones? 
When in your very young days you sang ; 

" Lift up the gates as high as the sky, 
And let King George and his troops pass by," 

as two of the biggest among you locked hands and 

formed an arch, which the others tried to " shoot," 
and were caught ; and then when still other arches 
were formed behind these, and the great pull set in, 
all shouting together what the first arch had begun : 

" London Bridge is falling down — falling down — " 

what was it but an echo of the past, the ancient 
voices of the children in old London-town revived, 
chanting their belief in the gray old bridge, that 
never, like their own little hands, could unlock its 
arches from their hold, break apart, or fall ! 



By E. Cavazza. 

Through Sleepy-Land doth a river flow. 
On its further bank white daisies grow ; 
And snow-white sheep, in woolly floss. 
Must, one by one, be ferried across. 
In a little they safely ride 
To the meadows green, on the other side. 
Lullaby, sing lullabv ! 

One little sheep has gone over the stream ; 
They press to the bank. How eager they seem ! 
Two little sheep, alone on the shore, — 
Only two sheep, but he 's bringing one more ; 
Three little sheep, in the flowery fields, 
Cropping the grass which Sleepy-Land yields. 
Lullaby, sing lullaby ! 

The boatman comes to carry the sheep 
In his little boat to the Land of Sleep ; 
Upon his head is a poppy wreath ; 
His eyelids droop, and his eyes beneath 
Are drowsy from counting, " One, two, three. 
How many sheep doth the baby see ? 
Lullaby, sing lullaby ! 

Four little, five little sheep now are over; 
Six little, seven little sheep in the clover, — 
Deep in the honey-sweet clover they stand. 
Eight little, nine little sheep, now they land ; 
Ten, and eleven, and twelve little sheep ! — 
And baby, herself, is gone with them, to sleep ! - 
Lullaby, sing lullaby ! 



By Tudor Jenks. 

I AM not sorry that I became an astrologer. 
The work is monotonous but not wearing, and the 
hours are short. As an apprentice I was a hard 
student, and frequently consulted the stars ; but 
now, without conceit, I think I speak within 
bounds in saying that I know all there is to know 
about planets, stars, asteroids, comets, nebulae, and 
horoscopes, and twice as much as any other 
astrologer of my weight ; so I seldom refresh my 
memory by going, through my telescope, directly 
to nature. 

1 admit it is inconvenient to be obliged to wear 
a thick woolen robe on warm clays. 1 also admit 
that a shorter beard would be less in my way, and 
that 1 might shave if my customers did not object. 
I do not deny that my raven, a second-hand bird 
which once belonged to Zadkiel, is a nuisance, be- 
cause of his continually stealing my spectacles. 
As I have only one pair, it is very hard to find them 
when I have no spectacles to find them with. The 
bird is not sympathetic, and enjoys my annoyance 
over the search ; croaking derisively as 1 go stum- 
bling around among dusty old books and brittle 
glass crucibles. This irritates me ; and I put him 
on bread and water, which irritates him. 

My calculations are a bore ; and I am very apt 
to pinch my fingers or entangle my beard in the 
Vol. XV.— 19. 2S 

celestial globe. P/Iy customers are greedy, and 
insist upon being kings, duchesses, pirates, and so 
on, ignoring the indications which plainly show 
them to be intended for hurdy-gurdy players, scis- 
sors-grinders, or poets. The planets are all right; 
I have no particular fault to find with the fixed 
stars ; but those vagabonds, the comets, will often 
act in the most unfriendly way, — spoiling my very 
best combinations. It makes customers ill-na- 
tured, and they hold me responsible, just as 
though I arranged the comets to suit myself! Per- 
haps it is not strange that 1 am a trifle touchy ; I 
feel sure astrologers will agree that 1 am no more 
nervous than is excusable under the trials of the 
profession. Still, 1 repeat, I am satisfied with my 
vocation. I did hesitate between star-gazing and 
saw-filing ; but I think my choice was not unwise ; 
for, as an astrologer, I became more or less familiar 
with magic, — a pleasant recreation if pursued with 
proper discretion, but not fit for children. While 
1 lived alone, 1 had no trouble with it; for although 
I made mistakes, I was indulgent enough to over- 
look them. 

But when my only sister unfortunately died and 
left a lovely little daughter alone in the world, 
whom nobody else could be persuaded to adopt, I 
foolishly consented to bring up that child. It was 




an amiable, even admirable, weakness — but, my 
stars ! what curious things a child can do ! 

I had had no kindergarten experience. I was 
never in an orphan asjlum, so far as I know, and 1 
was an only son. I knew nothing of children, except 
such superficial acquaintance as enabled me to 
foretell their futures and to advise parents about 
bringing them up ; and )-et in mj- old age I was 
thus, by an accident, forced to take full charge of a 
small girl of very decided traits — born with Jupiter 
in the ascendant, and Mercury not far oft"! What 
bothered me most was her goodness. A bad child 
can be coaxed and punished ; but an affectionate, 
mischievous, obedient, and innocent girl — what 
can be done with her ? 

1 never thought of locking up my books of 
magic — and she must have read thein, 1 suppose; 
for, before I knew it. that \oungster was working 
spells and charms, fixing up enchantments, and 
making transformations which required more time 
to disentangle than 1 could readily spare from my 
business hours. 

The first disagreeable experience resulted from 
her having read about some old flying horse in 
Greece, Turkey, or elsewhere, and she took to 
wandering about the fields keeping a bright look- 
out for him ! I suspect she became discouraged, 
and resolved to make one for herself, since she 
caught a little colt, fixed a pair of wings by some 


spell or other upon the colt's shoulders, and at- 
tempted to harness him with flowers ; whereupon 
he flew away ! It could n't have displeased the colt, 

for he was not at all sedate in character. But the 
farmer who owned him did not think of that. He 
came to see me about it, thoughtlessly bringing 
his pitchfork with him ; so I found it best to prom- 
ise to remove the wings. Luckily, she had left 
the book open at the very charm that had been 
used and I was able to undo it; though there was 
some delay, caused by the necessity of using a lock 
of hair from the head of the Sultan, w ho was kind 
enough to grow one for me as soon as he could. 

Now that child did n't mean any harm ; she 
could n't see why a horse should n't fly, — the little 
goose ! — nor could I explain it to her very clearly. 
She promised, however, not to do so again, and of 
course we said no more about it. 

The week after, coming home one day I found 
my room filled to the brim, so to speak, with an 
enormous green dragon who blew smoke from his 
nostrils so profusely that it gave me some trouble 
to convince the villagers that there was no fire and 
that they were nuisances, with their buckets and 
ladders ! 

Of course my magic-books were inaccessible, and 
we took lodgings with a neighbor until the dragon 
was starved out. The dragon's skin ni.ade an ex- 
cellent rug, but the experience was not enjoyable. 
I could not reprove my niece for this, because she 
explained very frankly that she had made the drag- 
on larger than she intended ; it was only a misfit. 

You may think me absent-minded ; but it 
never occurred to me to forbid these practices, al- 
though, had I done so, she would have obeyed me. 
I forgot about it, except when some new prank 
brought the matter to my mind, and then I became 
absorbed in remedying the difficulty caused by her 
experiment. Once I tried to divert her mind by 
inducing her to adopt a doll which the raven had 
cleverly secured from somebody ; but her care of it 
was so e\-idently due to a desire to please me that 
whenever she held it I was uneasy. When the 
raven took the doll away again (let us hope, to re- 
turn it), we were both relieved. 

For a time after the dragon incident, my niece 
was shy of using the magic-books, and I enjoyed 
this quiet interval very much. I was occupied in 
manufacturing a horoscope for the innkeeper, who 
H-as quite well-to-do. He had promised me a 
round sum for a favorable sketch of his future, and 
I was anxious to give satisfaction and to collect my 
bill. But the stars indicated that only the strictest 
economy would tide him over a coming financial 
crisis in his affairs — which made me fear there 
might be some uncertainty about my fee. Ab- 
sorbed in this perplexity, I may have neglected 
my niece ; at all events, she got into the habit of 
spending her time with the innkeeper's family. 

A commercial ilfagician from Lapland, of great 




dignity and little importance, chanced to arrive at 
the inn while my niece was there. Overhearing 
his negotiation with the landlord, she learned, 


through the foolish talkativeness of the magician, 
that the long and imposing train of mules and 
other companions accompanying him were not, in 
reality, what they appeared to be, but were simply 
his performing company of manufactured hallu- 
cinations disguised in their traveling shapes. 
Imagine the effect upon the curious and ingenu- 
ous mind of my playful niece ! The' heedless ma- 
gician, with equal carelessness, left his wand upon 
the table in the front hall, where anybody could 
reach it. You can foresee the result. 

It must have been merely by chance that she 
succeeded in counteracting the spell by which 
these creatures were confined to their ev£ry-day 
forms. However that may be, you may iinagine 
what happened while the magician was at dinner 
that afternoon. The inquiring spirit of childhood 
led my niece to make trial of the wand, when, of 
course, the mules and attendants returned to their 
original shapes and flew off, a buzzing swarm of 
bees ! I was walking in the village, and so soon 
as I saw the swarm I understood what had hap- 
pened, and must admit, I was amused. 

When I arrived at the inn, ifce magician was 

discontented. He failed to appreciate the child's 
ingenuity and enterprise, and really seemed in- 
clined to speak hastily to the poor child, who 
stood looking on with an innocent pleasure 
in her success, which 1 found charming. 
But, since 1 was there, he only stared help- 
lessly about and seemed an.xious to say more 
than he could wait to pronounce, till I told 
him that he must have patience and forti- 
tude. As he came to his senses, he showed 
signs of knowing what to do. He sent for 
the pepper-casters and vinegar-cruets, neatly 
changed them into divining-boxes, which 
straightw-ay poured forth the proper necro- 
mantic fumes, and then — remembered that 
he needed his wand ! A long search resulted 
in finding it up the kitchen chimney, after 
which a careful and laborious cleansing 
brought it into a suitable condition to be 
handled. All this, my niece greatly enjoyed. 
By that time, the magician was very much 
irritated and began a powerful invocation 
to a muscular spirit who would, perhaps, 
have brought the whole party back, in a 
jiffy ! — but I interfered, and explained to 
him, at some length, that the whole episode 
^ was nothing more than a piece of girlish 

curiosity, not calling for any harsh methods 
or severe measures. I offered my assistance, 
which he declined, — without thanks. I 
shrugged my shoulders and was strolling 
indifferently away when he began to make 
an answer. I saw that he had not an easy 
command of language. 

" What nonsense ! — such a fix I 'm in ! — girlish 


curiosity ' — Where do you think that pack of irre- 
sponsible insects has gone? — I hope they will — 




Please to get away ! " I withdrew. It was not 
my affair, but they told me that my niece, inadvert- 
ently I am sure, had injured the wand so that it 
failed to work, and that the magician made futile 
attempts to use it, until the boys laughed at hini, 
when he desisted. Having lost all his attendants, 
materials, and supplies, and his wand being useless, 
the magician was almost distracted. He was un- 
able to leave the village, and the landlord would n't 
have him at the inn, so I took him to board on 
credit, at a reasonable charge. 

When the magician took up his abode with me, 
my niece was somewhat fond of questioning him, 
but apparently found that it was not worth her 
time, for she seemed to lose interest in him very 
soon. In fact she forgot all about him and about 
me as well, and became entirely absorbed in an 
attempt to teach the raven to play Jack-stones — 
for which recreation he showed very little talent. 
As there was, necessarily, considerable noise in her 
course of instruction, I requested her to hold the 
sessions out-of-doors, and she kindly adopted the 

In order to occupy the magician's mind I gave 
him some copying, but he was n't interested in 
his work. He was restless, and wandered out into 
the country searching high and low for the curi- 
ous crowd of nondescripts which my careless niece 
had liberated in a praiseuorthy attempt to gain 
knowledge. 1 called his attention to this view of the 
subject and asked whether he did not see it in the 
same light, but I must say he was quite unreason- 
able and prejudiced. He left the room abruptly, 
forgetting his hat, leaving the door wide open and 
his quill-pen behind his ear. He was gone for 
some time. In the afternoon he came back radi- 
ant, crying aloud : 

"I have found them — I have found them!" 
and dancing with joy. His dancing was very 
good, but I was busy and paid no attention to him. 
If he had been a man of any tact, he would have 
felt my indifference ; but some people can not take 
a hint, and he went on as eagerly as though I had 
shown some interest in the performance. 

'•As I was walking in the meadows," he shouted, 
" I nearly tripped over the body of a peasant lying 
flat upon the ground, studying an ant-hill with a 
magnifying-glass. I asked him what he was doing 
and he told me that he was The Sluggard, and 
that he had been advised to go to the ants and 
consider their ways and be wise. I inquired how 
he was getting on ; he said he was getting on very 
well, that he had learned to gather all he could, 
to store it up wliere it would be safe, and to keep in 
out of the wet. " 

This bored me extremely, and I coughed sig- 
nificantly, but the magician continued rambling : 

" I asked if I might look through the lens. He 
said I might, and I did. Now what do you suppose 
I saw through that lens? " 

I had not recovered my good humor. I con- 


fess that I am sensitive and that my feelings are 
easily hurt. This foolish attempt to ask me 
rhetorical conundrums displeased me, and I made 
no reply. But that man was not discouraged. 
He repeated the question. Turning toward him, 
I spoke in a way he could not misunderstand. 

"Upon applying your eye to the glass," I re- 
marked, "you were astonished to perceive that 
the small creatures which you had supposed to be 
common black ants were in reality a colony of 
bees, who seemed for some strange reason of their 
own to have chosen an abandoned ant-hill for a 
hive ! This anomaly seems not to have attracted 
your notice; but, if I had been with you, I could 
have informed you that you might have concluded 
from so very significant a fact that this was the 
swarm which you are so anxious to find. Does 
not reflection incline you to agree with me? " 

He was disappointed. He had foolishly hoped 
to surprise me — such puerility ! " You are right," 
he replied, in a muffled sort of voice. 

"Very well," said I. "Now, in my turn, I will 
propose a question. Your wand being out of order, 
how are you to get those wanderers back ? " I en- 
joyed his discomfiture. His face was a study, and 
I studied it until I learned that he had no suggestion 
to maket His face wore no expression whatever. 

Then, in a kindly spirit, I said to him: "Bring 
me your little wand. Sit down like a magician, 
and don't dance about like a dervish, and I '11 
fix it for you." He was visibly moved by my kind- 
ness, and agreed to all I proposed. He brought 
the wand and, after a keen examination, I found a 
screw loose and with my penknife I tightened it. A 
sickly smile flitted over his face. " You are doing 
me a good turn," he murmured. I gave him a 
searching glance ; but the smile was so faint, and 




faded so quickly, that I decided he did not mean to 
be humorous. It was lucky for him, for astrologers 
are sworn foes to humorists ; and I should have 
broken his wand into several fragments if I had 
detected the slightest levity. He said no more. 
Having mended the wand, I handed it to him, 
saying: "Go, recover your chattels!" He re- 
tired with briskness, and it gives me pleasure to 
record the fact that I have never seen him since. 

My niece told me, casually, that she was glad 
that the magician was gone. I offered to tell her 
about his departure, but she assured me she took 
no interest in the subject. She did not say any 
more about it, and, since I do not believe in en- 
couraging childish prattle, I made no more allu- 
sions to our boarder. 

I have lately asked her whether she would prefer 
to qualify herself to study astrology, with magic as 
an extra, or would be better satisfied to learn saw- 
filing under some well-known virtuoso. She replied 

with much discretion, that she thought a quiet life 
was the happiest after all. So, although she has 
not yet expressed herself more definitely, I feel sure 
she is giving the subject mature consideration. I 
admire her greatly, and predict that she will do 
well if carefully neglected. 

As time passes, I notice that I grow older, and, 
although I cannot repent having chosen the career 
of an astrologer, if my niece chooses the saw-filing 
business, I may perhaps take up some similar 
musical pursuit, so that we may not be separated. 
Meanwhile my niece is attending a very excellent 
school, and makes good progress in her studies. 
In fact her progress was so rapid at first, that she 
came near graduating in about two weeks ; but, as 
I then persuaded her to give up the use of the 
magic-books, she is now making slower and more 
satisfactory progress, being quite backward. 

The dust lies thick on the magic-books. Magic 
is amusing, but it sometimes makes trouble. 




Bv C. F. Holder. 

Who has not heard of the wonderful tides of 
Fundy, which are ever rushing up and down that 
great arm of the Atlantic, seemingly with the in- 
tention of making an island of Nova Scotia and so 
separating Acadia, with its beautiful legends, from 
the rest of the world ? 

Strange stories come to us from the Fundy 
shore. Now they tell of a drove of pigs in a 
wild race with the rushing current ; again, some 
farmer's chickens wander down the flats and are 
borne home on the crest of the " roaring bore," as 
the great tidal flow is called. In fact, by a patient 
study of all the legends of old Acadia, we would 
find that these tidal waves were responsible for 
many strange and curious happenings. 

One of these natural practical jokes, as they 
might be called, forms the subject of our story ; 
and, although it is told as a legend, it is not only 
possible, but the old residents of the land of Evan- 
geline state that just such an incident did take place, 
and that it is likely to occur again — whenever such 
a skipper and crew sail into IVlinas Basin. 

It seems, according to the old story-tellers, that 
years ago the captain of a New England coaster 
determined to discover the exact location of " Down 
East." At every port he visited, from Cape Cod 
to Boothbay, the inhabitants all denied that they 
lived there, and when asked where " Down East " 
was, only pointed mysteriously up the coast. 
Finally, when the skipper of "The Dancing Polly" 
received a cargo of goods for Grand Pre, he was 
highly pleased, thinking that at last " Down East " 
would be found, — for, in those days. Nova Scotia 
was considered " the jumping-off place." 

One fine spring morning, the schooner got under 
way, and sailed merrily up through the maze of 
islands that skirts the coast of Maine. Fair westerly 
winds favored them, and on the second day they 
entered the famous Bay of Fundy, or Fond de la 
Bale, as the French call it. 

The skipper had never heard of the great tide 
there; and when, the following morning, the mouth 
of the Minas Channel appeared on the right shore, 
he bore away for it, wing and wing, and he was 
soon under the shadows of the old Acadian hills. 
. The rich green fields and the villages along- 
shore seemed to give a friendly greeting; and cap- 
tain and crew decided that "Down East" was a 
very pleasant region. 

But luck is fickle ; and as they were bowling 
along, up the basin proper, they felt a sudden jar, 
then heard a scraping sound ; and a moment later 
■' The Dancing Polly " was aground, under full sail. 

The small-boat was put out with a hedge, and 
the sails were braced this way and that, but all to 
no purpose, — the boat was aground hard and fast, 
the tide was going out, and skipper and "crew " 
would have to wait until the high tide came to float 
them off. It was quite late in the day, and ere long 
the captain, and the cook, the great Newfoundland 
dog, and a yellow-and-black cat, who constituted 
the crew, all went to bed. 

Early the next morning, the captain was 
awakened by the dog ; and when he crawled out 
of his berth, he found the floor of the cabin so 
aslant that he had to scramble on all fours to 
reach the ladder. The schooner was evidently 
heeled over. But the captain had expected this, 
and made his way on deck as best he could. 

Was he dreaming? He certainly thought so; 
and then, having some doubts, he reached over 
and gently touched the yellow-and-black cat's tail. 
An answering wail assured him that he was awake, 
and that he and '' The Dancing Polly " were really 
somewhere high up in mid-air. 

The bewildered skipper crept to the rail, his 
astonishment all the while increasing. The broad 
stream of the day before had vanished. Not a 
drop of water was in sight, but far below him 
could be seen a vast basin of mud, in which pigs 
were rooting and grunting ! 

For some time the skipper stood and looked ; 
then, noticing the cook standing by and, like him- 
self, lost in wonder, he said : 

" Wal, John, I reckon we 've reached here at 

" Reached where ? " exclaimed the cook. 

"Down East," replied the old man solemnly. 

" It looks more like ' up East ' and on a power- 
ful high perch, moreover," retorted the cook; 
"and I 'm for striking inshore." 

The two men started forward, and they soon 
found that the schooner was resting on a great 
ledge of rock like a tower that rose out of the mud. 
Lowering a rope over the side, they let themselves 
down upon the rock, and even then were several 
feet from the muddy surface. 

The great pedestal upon which they stood was 



covered with olivc-hucd and black weeds, which 
concealed innumerable star-hshes, sea-urchins and 
shells, and it gradually dawned upon them that 
"The Dancing Polly " had not been transported 
inland, but that the water had gone seaward and 
left them. 

How to get down was the next question, and 

Then and there, the Yankee navigator first 
heard of the Fundy tides ; and several hours 
later, from the deck of the little craft, he saw the 
"bore" coine in ; — first a small stream, growing 
rapidly w ider and deeper until the entire basin was 
filled with the surging waters that rose higher and 
higher, until finally "The Dancing Polly" floated 

-— '^■"«"< 


after a debate about leaving the dog and cat, the 
two men finally managed to slide, slip, and scram- 
ble to the plain below, and through mud waist- 
deep floundered to the shore, where they were 
received with roars of laughter by a group of fine- 
looking Acadians, who had been watching their 
descent and their difficult progress. 

free, and once more sailed away in the direction 
of Grand Pre. 

" You Down Easters have curious ways," said 
the captain to bis Acadian acquaintances, after he 
was safely moored at the dock that night. 

" Down Easters ? " queried one of them. 

" Is n't this ' Down East ' ? " asked the skipper. 




" Oh, no ! " was the rejoinder ; and pointing his 
arm in the direction of the sunrise, the Acadian 
explained, " ' Down East ' is up the coast, a way." 

"Then I shall never get there," replied the 
captain regretfully — and he never did. 

The curious tides which still rush in and out of 
the basin just as they did in the olden times, are 
caused by the formation of the coast. The water 
crowds into the Bay of Fundy as the tide rises, 
and, being unable to spread out in the narrow- 
ing and shallowing channel, is forced to a very 
great height. In the Basin of JVIinas the spring- 
tide has been known to rise nearly seventy feet, 
and at other times it rises as high as forty or fifty 
feet; at Chignecto Bay the rise is usually between 

fifty and sixty feet ; and in the estuary of the 
Petitcodiac, where the tidal current meets the 
river, there is formed the so-called '" great bore," 
which rushes on with such velocit)' that animals are 
often caught and swept away by it. 

These great tides are by no means confined to 
the Bay of Fundy. The natives of the Amazon 
country tell of tlieir pororoca, which really is a 
great roaring bore, where the tide-water, for a time 
kept back by the formations of the bars and of the 
channel, suddenly rushes onward in one or two or 
three great waves. A similar phenomenon is 
noticed in the Hoogly River, and in the Tsien-tang 
in China, up which the tidal wave rushes at the rate 
of twenty-five miles an hour. 

By Lieut. Frederick Schwatk.a. 

many In- 
dian names 
seem to ex- 
plain them- 
selves , 
y o u n g 
readers no 
doubt have 
often pondered and 
wondered over the odd 
names of some of our 
Western Indians as pub- 
lished in the daily 
papers. Such appella- 
tions as " Hole-in-the- 
Day," " Touch - the - 
Clouds," " Red Cloud," 
"Spotted-Tail," "Man- 
Afraid - of- his - Horses, " 
and scores of others 
which I might call to 
mind, must have excited 
curiosity. The names 
here given belong to 
individuals of the Sioux 
tribe, which is the largest 
tribe within the United 

When these Sioux Indians were little boys and 
girls, so small that they had done nothing at all 

worthy of notice, they had no names whatever; 
being known simply as "White Thunder's little 
baby-boy," " Red Weasel's two-year-old girl," 
" One of Big Mouth's twins," and so on, according 
to their fathers' names ; and, occasionally, — if 
Sioux women were talking to each other, — accord- 
ing to the mother's name. The earliest striking 
incident in an Indian's life may fasten a name upon 
him. A little fellow, not able to take care of him- 
self, is kicked by an Indian pony, let us say, and, 
until some more prominent event in his career 
changes his name, he will Ije known as "Kicking 
Horse," or "Kicked-by-the-Horse." Or, a little 
girl, while scrambling through a wild-plum thicket, 
may not realize how near she is to the bank of the 
stream until a small piece of ground gives way 
under her feet, and she goes tumbling head-over- 
heels into the water. When rescued and brought 
home, she is called " Fell-in-tl-»e-Water," which 
probably will be wrongly translated into English 
as "Falling Water" ; and we, hearing her so called, 
say, " What a pretty name I " " How poetical the 
Indian names are ! " We should never have thought 
so, if we had seen the ragged little miss screaming 
and clutching at the grass as shewent, with asplash, 
into the muddy creek. And even if the little girl 
herself could be brought to believe that it was a 
pretty name, I am sure she would insist that it was 
not a pleasant christening. Again, some little 
urchins, playing far away from the tepees (as the 
picturesque skin-tents or lodges are called), sud- 



denly arc overtaken by a thunder-shower, and they 
come home wet to the skin ; thenceforth one may 
be called " Rain-in-thc-Face," and another, "Little 
Thunder, " if they are not already named. And 
so these slight incidents, some serious, some com- 
ical, give names to the little Sioux, until, as I have 

grow before they could give him so pompous a 

Once in a while, however, the names that the lit- 
tle ones have borne cling to them for. life; either 
because nothing happens afterwards of sufficient 
importance to cause a change, or because they like 

"he was as delighted as a civilized child with a coveted toy. 

said, other occurrences or feats suggest other 
names, which they like better, or which they and 
their fellow-Indians adopt. 

" Three Bears " got his name by killing three of 
those animals in one encounter, and he must have 
been well past his boyhood, or he could not have 
performed a feat of such valor. 

" Pawnee-Killer " was not so called until he had 
slain a great number of Pawnees, a neighboring 
tribe of Indians, most bitterly hated by the Sioux. 
He, also, must have reached manhood before being 
named. Many names similarly given might be 
mentioned, for it is generally the names obtained 
late in life that are preferred, as one of these almost 
always recalls some great deed that redounds to its 
owner's credit ; and this gratifies the savage vanity 
and pride, of which they have no small amount. 

"Touch-the-Clouds" received his title from the 
fact that he was very tall, — over six feet in height, 
I believe ; and of course they had to wait for him to 

the old names, however simple they may be or how- 
ever insignificant the event commemorated. Such 
was the case with the great Sioux chief, " Spotted 
Tail," a leader most famous among them, and one 
who has ruled over great numbers of that large tribe, 
for it should be remembered that the Sioux nation 
is not subject to any single ruler, but is divided into 
a number of bands of different names, each with a 
different chieftain, who has many sub-chiefs under 

When this great chief was a very little fellow, his 
father left the lodge, or tepee, one morning, for a 
day's hunting after deer, which he expected to find 
in the brush and timber along the stream near the 
camp. It was an unlucky day, however, — the only 
thing he captured being a big raccoon, the skin of 
which he brought home. Coming to his lodge, and 
seeing one or two Indians sitting in front of it, 
watching the antics of his little son, he threw the 
raccoon's skin to the boy for a plaything. The 



youngster, pleased with the present, spread it cut 
carefully before the group of Indians ; and when he 
pulled the tail, covered with black and gray rings, 
from under the skin, he was as delighted as a civil- 
ized child with a coveted toy, and he jumped up 
and down upon the skin, crying : 

" Look at its tail, all spotted ! Look at its spotted 
tail ! " 

Those around him joined in his childish glee. 
(For it must be borne in mind that the oldest boy- 
child of a Sioux warrior is a perfect prince in the 
household, — his mother and sisters being his slaves, 
and no one but his father above him in authority. 
So you can see why all tried to please him. ) The 
incident was rather amusing, too, for the rac- 
coon's tail was not spotted at all, but covered with 
black stripes, or rings. So, while the spectators 
were laughing, the youngster was immediately 
dubbed "Spotted Tail," — ^iii-ta Ga-/is-/:a, in 
Siou.x; sin-hi being tail, and t,''(i'-//jr-/-(r, spotted — a 
name that has clung to him through all his eventful 
life. And certainly there was no lack of thrilling 
episodes which could have changed it, should vanity 
have made him desire a change. A warrior who 
had seen, and had been leader in, so many battles, 
of whom countless deeds of personal valor were 
recounted, and whose war-suit was trimmed with 
650 scalps,* could easily have had a pompous name 
had he wished it. But, like all really great men. 

■ In trimming a war suit with scalps, only as much of each scalp is used as can be drawn through an eagle's quil 

are then sewn in rows upon the buckskin shirt and leggins. 

whether their lot be cast in civilized or in savage 
life, this great Sioux chief was modest ; and in 
nothing is this better shown than in his satisfaction 
with the simple name of his baby-days, though it 
arose from such a trifling incident, and in his refusal 
to choose a name like "Pawnee-Killer," "White 
Thunder," or some other high-sounding title. 

"Crazy Horse," the great Sioux chief, who was 
proininent in the Custer massacre, and who gained 
several other victories over us in war, is not given 
his right name, strictly speaking", for, in changing 
it into our language, it was misinterpreted. He 
was a superb rider, noted even among a nation of 
fine horsemen, and he could ride anything, however 
vicious, wild, or intractable. "Untamable Horse" 
would have been a better rendering of his name. 

" Man-Afraid-of-his-Horses," the great Ogallalla 
Sioux chief, is also not rightly named in English. 
He was very careful about his horses when on the 
war-path, in times of peril keeping guard over 
them all night — a very unusual precaution among 
Indians. " Man-Careful-of-his-Horses," or "Man- 
Afraid-of-a-Stampede-of-his-Horses, " would be 
truer to his real Indian name. 

I must leave you to imagine the origin of the 
titles " Hole-in-the-Day," "Red Cloud," "Two 
Strikes," " Little Big Man," " Good Voice," and 
other quaint and queer Indian names which you 
may see from time to time. 

and these little tassels 



By John Preston True. 

Chapter I. 

Tramp : tramp : tramp : tramp : tramp : tramp : 
tramp : tramp : came the rhythmic beat of feet 
across the drill-hall floor. A hundred boys in 
blue were marching in a long double line that 
reached from side to side of the wide hall ; and 
overhead the great beams and iron rods shook and 
quivered in tremulous accord with the throbbing of 
the feet below, as the dark-blue ranks swept from 
end to end of the long building. 

Straight onward marched the battalion, under the 
command of the senior captain, as unwavering as 
though the wall in front was about to vanish like a 
curtain and leave a clear passage out into the world 

Clear as a bell came the ringing command of the 
senior captain : 

"To the rear" — yet on they went, until one 
more step would dash the front rank sheer against 
the wall — 

" March ! " 

Then, as if by magic, each form whirled about 
with a single movement, and the ranks were march- 
ing in the opposite direction, with eyes fixed and 
impassive faces, so individually inexpressive as to 
lose for the time all distinguishing characteristics. 

The light from the lofty windows fell upon the 
double row of gun-barrels in glittering lines, and 
shot glancing rays from the gleaming blades of the 
line officers. At the regulation distance to the rear, 
the sergeants followed their platoons, their guns 
at " shoulder arms," their arms decorated with 

Then came a quick series of commands, and the 
two ranks suddenly became a solid column. 

'• Left oblique — march ! " 

And they glided away at a diagonal like a huge 
crab with a sidelong movement, and what had 
been the corner was now the advance guard of the 


Down came the upraised feet with a single thud, 
and the column was immovable for a second ; then 
with a half turn they again faced toward the end 
of the hall. Another volley of commands, and the 
column changed from solid to open ranks, and the 
muskets rose to " right shoulder arms." Thus it 
went on, until the routine drill came to " in place 
rest " and the boys again stood in two long lines, 
but leaning on their muskets, drawing breaths of 
relief and indulging in brief conversation. The 
officers strolled toward the platform at the side 
of the hall, where the gray-mustached veteran. 




General Long, was criticising the late drill and 
the appearance of the command as a whole. 
Sharp criticisms, too. The boys winced under 
them. He laid down the law without compunc- 
tion, and the young lieutenant who was bearing 
the brunt grew red with mortification. 

It was at Wild Lake Institute that all this hap- 
pened, and in the great buildmg which had once 
been used as a shelter for the exhibitors at the an- 
nual county fairs. Mr. Richards, the proprietor 
of the Institute, had at last secured the use of this 
building for a long term of years. So the windows 
that had looked upon piles of turnips and mam- 
moth squashes earlier in the season, now lighted the 
evolutions of the school battalion during the daily 
two hours' drill. There was room enough for a 
regiment upon the floor. It was one hundred 
yards in length, and the lofty roof gave promise 
of good ventilation. No wonder that Mr. Rich- 
ards felt a hearty satisfaction as he walked up and 
down tlie platform on his occasional visits, with his 
hands behind his back, or abstractedly pulling his 
nose, as he had a habit of doing. The welfare 
of the Institute was very dear to him, and he 
had a reputation, which was well deserved, of 
sending better prepared students to the Harvard 
examinations than any other teacher in the 
country. When he was present, the General was 
less of a martinet than at other times, and that, if 
nothing more, made the boys welcome him right 
gladly when he appeared. 

To-day, however, he was absent, and the General 
had it all his own way. On the platform near a 
window, a young fellow with the chevrons of a ser- 
geant on his arm stood leaning against a post. 
There was a discontented expression on his frank 
face, which was pale and rather thin. Another 
sergeant strolled up and spoke to him. 

" Hullo, Harry ! glad to see you around again. 
But what on earth are you looking so solemn 
over ? " 

" Drill ! " was the sententious response. 

"What 's that to do with it ? Has the General 
been stirring you up ? He 's been lecturing the 
second lieutenant for the last ten minutes, and, as 
I live, he 's making his company go through the 
manual again ! " 

It was even so. With suppressed indignation, 
the unfortunate officer had got his men into line 
again, and was snapping out his orders with a 
pyrotechnic vim that sent an answering thrill 
through the ranks; then they went through the 
manual without the word of command, tossing 
their muskets into the various prescribed positions 
with practiced hands, and the precision of clock- 

" See that, Ed ! " said his brother sergeant, 

Harry Wylie, with a red spot showing in each 
cheek. "That's the greatest piece of nonsense 
in the whole drill ; and they keep it up for ' exer- 
cise ! ' where 's the good of it ? what muscles does it 
train ? If they only laid claim to its usefulness in 
discipline I would n't say a word ; but to declare 
that a beneficial gymnastic exercise is a humbug. 
1 'm sick of it ! " 

" You 'd better not let General Long hear you, 
if you expect to wear a sword next year," said 
Edward Dane, laughing, and stroking his own 
chevrons complacently. "Or is 'first sergeant' 
the height of your ambition?" 

"Hang the sword!" exclaimed Harry, indig- 
nantly. " What 's that to do with the principle 
of the thing? Besides," — with a laugh — "it 's 
the abstract, not the concrete, that I object to." 

"Well, Harry, if the principal hears of your 
heretical notions, he '11 abstract your name from 
the promotion list, as sure as fate ; and if I were 
you, 1 'd stick a tompion into the muzzle of my 

" Can't a fellow express an honest opinion?" 

•■ Hum ! That depends," said Dane, cau- 

" 1 'm only saying what every mother's son of 
you believes in his heart of hearts. I came here 
to prepare for college, and as it is the best fitting- 
school that I know of, I shall stay here till 1 am 
ready to go ; but that does n't imply that I mean 
to swallow a ramrod." 

" Sergeant Dane, go to your post ! Sergeant 
Wylie, go to your quarters, and report yourself 
after drill hours to Mr. Richards as under arrest 
for mutinous conversation while on duty ! " With 
these words, the straight figure of the General 
suddenly appeared at the elbow of the astonished 
young officers. 

Sergeant Dane drew himself up, saluted, turned 
on his heel and rejoined his company, which had 
been standing at " in place rest ' ' near by. Sergeant 
Wylie also saluted, but began to say, 

"Perhaps 1 'd better explain " 

" No explanations are desired, sir. Go to yoUr 
quarters at once, or 1 will send you under escort!" 

So Wylie again saluted, turned likewise upon 
his heel, and departed with a new light in his eye, 
land wrath in his heart. 

" Too bad ! " muttered a private in the ranks to 
Lieutenant Leigh. 

" Hush ! " said the lieutenant between his teeth. 
" The old General is on his dignity to-day. He 
would fill the guard-house as full as a plum-pud- 
ding, and would think nothing of stuffing in a 
whole platoon. I 'm sorry for Wylie, but we can't 
do him any good." 

And Leigh, on the whole, was glad that the 




order "Attention" was given just then, that con- 
versation so dangerous miglit come to an end. 

Wylie, meanwhile, found his way across the 
parade-ground, which was a wide field between 
the drill-hall and the Institute, and entered his 
own room. It was not a large room, by any means, 
but it was light and well ventilated, and the walls 
were decorated by a few well-e.xecuted sketches. 
Harry sat down upon his solitary chair with his 
arms resting on the back of it, and gazed long and 
earnestly up at a picture of his home, over which 
was hung a long bow and a sheaf of arrows. 

"This is the very worst scrape that I 've been 
in since I came here," he said to himself "I 've 
a mind to write home all about it — hang it, no ! 
I'll fight it out by myself" And, jumping up, 
he straightened up his bolster against the wall, and 
bestowed upon it half a dozen scientific whacks, 
quick as winks, and with as hearty good-will as 
though the unoffending article of furniture had 
been the cause of all his trouble. Then the mal- 
treated bolster doubled itself over, and fell across 
the end of the iron bedstead to the floor, and 
Harry straightened himself up with a hearty laugh, 

" Heigho ! I may as well be studying, I suppose," 
and, taking down a book from a little hanging case 
upon the wall, he began to peruse "Csesar." The 
sunlight on the wall had moved several feet from 
its first position since he entered the room, and 
was gilding the wings of a stuffed "yellow-ham- 
mer" ; the great clock upon the tower had tolled 
the hours twice, and there was a tramp of feet in 
the corridor and the hum of voices. Then the 
slamming of doors betokened the beginning of 
study hours, and all was quiet along the passages 
without. Harry had become deeply interested in 
" Caesar," and he minded the noise no more than 
he did the silence. 

Suddenly the sentinel at the door of the hall 
challenged, and there was the rattle of presented 
arms, and then the measured tramp of feet along 
the corridor toward his room. His door was flung 
open suddenly, and there was a file of soldiers 
with Sergeant Dane at their head. 

Harry sprang to his feet and snatched at his 
watch. Nearly three o'clock ! and he should have 
reported himself as under arrest at two ! 

" Oh, glory ! I forgot all about it." 

Dane said not a word, the presence of the com- 
mand preventing any audible expression of sym- 
pathy. But the look upon his face was eloquent 
enough, and said as plainly as speech itself, " I 'm 
sorry for you, old fellow, but this is decidedly the 
worst scrape yet." 

One minute later Harry Wylie was marching 
toward headquarters under escort. 

Chapter II. 

"I 'M afraid that you are a little too severe, 
General," said Mr. Richards. "The boys are not 
used to it when they come, and they need gentle 
handling or they get a distaste for the whole drill." 

" I am sorry, Mr. Richards, that you decline to 
give me your support," said the General, throwing 
back his shoulders with an air of offended dignity. 
"The drill was simply absurd; half the boys in 
the second company were three seconds behind 
time, and their muskets went to the shoulder like 
a flight of stairs or an arithmetical progression. In 
the service we would have kept them at it till they 
could do it properly, if it required a week. But if 
you hamper me in inflicting punishments, you de- 
prive me of all authority, and must be responsible 
for the demoralization that will result." 

Mr. Richards laughed quietly, leaning back in 
his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. 

" Now, seriously. General, do you think the fail- 
ure to go through the manual properly, with six 
new recruits in the ranks, a crime that would war- 
rant committing a platoon to the guard-house, or a . 
company to extra duty ? But that was not what I 
object to. What I feel the most deeply about is 
the free use that you make of sarcasm at times. 
Does it not hurt the boys' feelings needlessly ? Re- 
member they are defenseless, and must bear it 

The General rose and paced up and down the 
precincts of the library, his face expressive of con- 
flicting feelings. The principal took up a book 
and leaned back in his easy-chair by the window 
that overlooked the campus, watching with a smile 
the antics of the boys who had come out from their 
rooms for a twenty-minute absorption of fresh air. 

It did him good to watch them, and when some 
forty of them got up a break-neck race around the 
parade-ground he leaned forward eagerly to see 
which was the winner. 

" I believe you are right, Mr. Richards," said 
the General, finally. " I would resign my posi- 
tion," he added, with a laugh, " if I did n't know 
that you would get a worse fellow next time." 

" That is not to be thought of I will tell you 
why I have such strong opinions on this question," 
and the principal, in turn, arose and began to pace 
the room. "When I was at school, a shy, sensi- 
tive, up-country lad, I once was under a teacher 
who had no respect for the rights of a pupil. He 
really insulted us often. The more hardened 
laughed ; others were made doggedly obstinate. 
When the dullard of the class made some egre- 
gious blunder, he would say, 'why, even Richards 
ought to know better than that. I don't suppose 
he does, though.' And do you suppose that I 



I Feu. 

shall ever be able to forget those gratuitous, sar- 
castic flings? Was that the treatment necessary 
to bring out the good latent in every boy's heart? 
1 have never met the man from that day to this ; 
but for years I used to wake in the night with a 
start, after dreaming that I was back in that 
school-room. It has been said that no man can 
be a teacher for ten years without becoming more 
or less of a tyrant. When I adopted teaching for 
my profession, I registered a vow that 1 would dis- 
prove that, if it pleased God that 1 should live so 

There was a sound of feet in the corridor, and 
the principal's little girl came running in, but 
stopped suddenly when she saw the General, and 
made a grimace of disappointment. The latter 
stooped and lifted her in his arms. 

" What is it this time, pet ? " 

" I don't like you to-day, General. You scolded 
my boys when they did n't do anything ! " 

" Alice ! " said the principal, quietly. 

" Well, he did ! " she asserted, rebcUiously. 

The General felt painfully embarrassed, and 
actually guilty, although he knew that he had 
but done his duty as he understood it. 

"Alice!" said the principal again in the same 
quiet tone. 

She hung her head a moment, and then looked 

" I know I was naughty. General. I will kiss 
you now." 

And the kiss was given. She lingered a mo- 
ment when she was put down, but soon ran out of 
the room, leaving a silence of some duration. 

" Well ? " said Mr. Richards, at length, with an 
interrogative inflection. 

" Well," echoed the General, " 1 give it up. 
You are a better disciplinarian than 1." And 
they both laughed in unison. 

They were old comrades, these two, and friends. 
When Mr. Richards projected his plan for the 
Wild Lake Institute, General Long was the first 
person whom he consulted, and it was by his 
advice that the military system of government 
had been adopted. The principal was not fullv 
convinced of its usefulness in every respect, al- 
though he conceded that so far as it went it gave 
the best results attainable. Still, there were some 
phases of the discipline that did not altogether 
please him, and he had been meditating the 
advisability of just such a little private talk with 
the General, for some time. He was not sorry 
it had been carried through so amicably, as Gen- 
eral Long had a veneration for "the service" 
and its customs amounting to idolatry ; and, as 
we have hinted, he was something of a martinet 
in his ideas as to military exactions. 

suggested the principal. 

They had discussed the matter for some time, 
when the General suddenly started and pulled out 
his watch, while his face grew stern in an instant. 

"I ordered Sergeant Wylie to report to you 
under arrest. He should have been here an hour 

" He has been 

" He was at the drill to-day. — With your per- 
mission — " The General reached out his hand 
toward the electric bell, with a look of inquiry. 
The principal nodded, and a pressure on the 
knob brought a sentinel to the door with a mil- 
itary salute. "Who is sergeant of the guard?" 
asked the General, answering the salute. 

" Edward Dane, sir." 

" Send him here." 

Dane appeared in less than a minute, with the 
customary salute. 

" Sergeant Dane, I ordered Sergeant Wylie to 
report himself here under arrest. He has not 
come. Take a squad and find him." 

The sergeant disappeared, and soon the meas- 
ured tramp of feet beneath the window, with the 
occasional jingle of accouterments, announced that 
he had departed upon his unwelcome mission. In 
about ten minutes the detail returned with Wylie 
in their midst, marching along with head erect 
and flashing eyes, but a face that was paleness 
itself The two sergeants entered the library, the 
squad remaining outside, and saluted, after which 
Dane withdrew in response to a nod from the prin- 
cipal, giving a secret squeeze of sympathy as his 
fingers brushed those of his fellow-student. 

" What is it all about, Dane?" asked one of the 
detail outside, the moment that the door closed 
between them and the prisoner. 

"Why, the General ordered him under arrest, 
and Wylie forgot to report ! " said Dane, leading 
the way to the hall where the guard held their 
rendezvous, and where the relief were expected to 
prepare their lessons. 

A long whistle of astonishment followed the 
announcement. Such an act of rebellion had 
never occurred during the term of any of those 

"But he really did forget," persisted Young. 
"There is no doubt about that. He jumped as 
though he had been harpooned when the sergeant 
opened the door. I wonder if some one of us 
ought n't to tell the principal of it ? " 

" Yes ; I think I see ' some one of us ' marching 
in upon the proceedings, unasked ! " said Fred 
Warrington, ironically ; and there was a general 
laugh at the picture which the suggestion had 
called up in each boy's mind. 

Dane moved uneasily around the room. Wylie 

and be were fast friends and classmates, and it 
seemed like deserting his friend in trouble thus to 
have to leave him in the hands of the General, es- 
pecially since Dane had been the unconscious cause 
of his being under arrest in the first place. Once, 
under a sudden impulse, he started for the library 
door, and had nearly reached it before the absurd- 
ity of that proceeding struck him. Manifestly, it 
would do no good to interfere, and might do harm, 
in that it would make it appear that the disaffec- 
tion was wide-spread, instead of being, as Dane 
firmly believed, due merely to a fit of petulance in a 

DRILL. 303 

not be evaded. Strictly speaking, they ought to 
have done that before, and Dane, as the ranking 
officer present, was at fault in not enforcing disci- 
pline, — a fault that would have brought down a 
reprimand upon his head had the General made 
his appearance in s-jason to catch them at their 

As it was, however, he gravitated between the 
window and the door with the regularity of a well- 
educated pendulum. Then he had an attack of 
thirst, which demanded satisfaction at the water- 
tank in the corridor just beyond the library-door. 

AN IS i-,.\ 1 1:1 

convalescent. Ordinarily, as he knew, Harry Wylie 
was an exemplary student, whether on parade or 
in the class-room. Indeed, he took higher rank 
there than Dane. Altogether, the sergeant of the 
guard was in an unenviable frame of mind. 

The others betook themselves to theirbooks, how- 
ever, since lessons were imperative evils that could 

The sentinel grinned when he saw him, but made 
no objection, and Dane was in no haste to finish 
his draught. He did finish it at last, and was about 
to return to the guard-room, when through the 
door of the library came a sharp exclamation ; then 
the sound of a heavy fall, instantly followed by the 
quick, fluttering jangle of the electric bell. 

( To be continued. ) 


By Palmer Cox. 

Brownies chanced at eve to 
Around a wide, but shallow 

Not far from shore, to their 

They saw a whale of mon- 
strous size, 
That, favored by the wind and tide, 
Had ventured in from ocean wide, 
But waves receding by-and-by, 
Soon left him with a scant supply. 

And gives him aid to reach the sea." 
I catch the hint ! " another cried ; 
Let all make haste to gain his side — 
Then clamber up as best we may, 
And ride him 'round till break of day." 
At once, the band in great delight 
Went splashing through the water bright, 
And soon to where he rolled about 
They lightly swam, or waded out. 
Now climbing up, the Brownies tried 
To take position for the ride. 
Some lying down a hold maintained; 

At times, with flaps and lunges strong 
He worked his way some yards along, 
Till on a bar or sandy marge 
He grounded like a leaden barge. 
■ A chance like this for all the band," 
Cried one, " bift seldom comes to hand. 
I know the bottom of this bay 
Like those who made the coast survey. 
'T is level as a threshing-floor 
And shallow now from shore to shore ; 
That creature's back will be as dry 
As hay beneath a tropic sky, 
Till morning tide comes full and free 

More, losing place as soon as gained. 
Were forced a dozen 

times to scale 
The broad side of the 

stranded whale. 
Now half-afloat and 

The burdened monster 

circled 'round, 
Still groping clumsily 

abou t 
As though to find the 

channel out. 



And Brownies clustered close, in fear 
That darker moments might be near. 
And soon the dullest in the band 
Was sharp enough to understand 
The creature was no longer beached, 
But deeper water now had reached. 
For plunging left, or plunging right, 
Or plowing downward in his might, 
The fact was plain, as plain could be - 
The whale was working out to sea ! 

A creeping fear will seize the mind 
As one is leaving shores behind. 
And knows the bark whereon he sails 
Is hardly fit to weather gales. 
Soon Fancy, with a graphic sweep. 
Portrays the nightmares of the deep ; 

While they can see, with living eye, 
The terrors of the air sweep by. 

For who would not a tierce bird dread, 
If it came flying at his head ? 

Vol. XV.— 20. 





And these were hungry, squawking things. 
With open beaks and flapping wings. 

Such fear soon gained complete command 
Of every Brownie in the band. 

They made the Brownies dodge and dip, 

Into the sea they feared to slip. 

The birds they viewed with chattering teeth, 

Yet dreaded more the foes beneath. 

The lobster, with his ready claw ; 

The fish with sword, the fish with saw ; 

The hermit-crab, in coral hall. 

Averse to every social call ; 

The father-lasher, and the shrimp. 

The cuttle-fish, or ocean imp, 

All these increase the landsman's fright, 

As shores are fading out of sight. 

They looked behind, where fair and green 
The grassy banks and woods were seen. 
They looked ahead, where white and cold 
The foaming waves of ocean rolled. 
And then, with woful faces drew 
Comparisons between the two. 
But, when their chance seemed slight indeed 
To sport again o'er dewy mead, 
The spouting whale, with movement strong, 
Ran crashing through some timbers long 
That lumbermen had strongly tied 
In cribs and rafts, an acre wide. 




'T was then, in such a trying hour, 

The Brownies showed their nerve and power. 

The diving whale gave Uttle time 

For them to choose a stick to chmb, — 

But grips were strong ; no hold was lost, 

However high the logs were tossed ; 
By happy chance the boom remained 
That to the nearest shore was chained, 
And o'er that bridge the Brownies made 
A safe retreat to forest shade. 


The Story of Small Rooster. 

By Margaret Eytinge. 


Small Rooster was a very fine bird. He 
was dressed in green and gold feathers, and he 
wore a high, bright-red comb. And oh, how 
proud he was. He was proud of his green and 
gold dress, and his high, bright-red comb, and he 
was proud because he could crow so long and 
loud. Not one of his three big brothers or his five 
big cousins could crow as long and loud. That 
was all very well, but he should not have always 
crowed so long and loud just at the break of day, 
?#4^. when almost every one else was still asleep. 
." ' "Why zuill you do it?" said Pretty Hen to 

him one morning. Pretty Hen was his mother. 
" I don't know," said Small Rooster. 
" Well don't do it again," said his mother. 
"Yes, ma'am — I mean no, ma'am," said Small Rooster. 
But the very next morning, as early as ever, " Cock-a-doodle-doo-oo- 
— Cock-a-doodle-doo-oo-oo ! " crowed Small Rooster at the top of his 




voice, waking all the fowls for a mile around and startling his mother so that 
she fell off the perch. Old Chanticleer ruled the roost, though he was too 
old to fly up to it. At the sound of Small Rooster's crowing, he opened his 


(Copied by permission from an etching by Bracquemond, published by Dowdeswell and Dowdeswells, London. I 

sleepy eyes and clucked angrily to Pretty Hen : " He 's a boisterous young 
scamp ! Scold him well ! " And then Chanticleer went back to his dreams. 


" Cluck-cluck-cluck-cluck-cluck," called Pretty Hen, as she picked herself 
up all covered with straw and sand: "What did I tell you only yesterday 
morning', Small Rooster?" 

" Ma'am ? " said he. 

"What did I tell you only yesterday morning?" repeated she, shaking 
her toe at him. 

"Not to crow again at break of day," answered Small Rooster. 

"Then why did you do it ? " said his mother. 

"Because — because — I don't know," said Small Rooster. 

" Well, if you do it again, and don't know, you '11 go without your break- 
fast," said his mother. 

"No, ma'am — I mean — yes, ma'am," said Small Rooster, and the very 
next morning crowed longer and louder than he had ever crowed before. 

Then, his mother was so angry she could scarcely cluck. But when 
Small Rooster saw her coming toward him, he called out, " Cock-a-doodle- 
doo-oo-oo — I know, I doo-oo-oo." 

"Oh, you doo-oo-oo!" said his mother. "Well, if you doo-oo-oo, 
you 'd better tell me quickly, for I 'm out of all patience with you. And 
mind, if it is n't a good reason, no breakfast do you get." 

" I crow so long and loud at the break of day," said Small Rooster, 
"because — because I want to wake the boy that lives in the house near 
our barn, so that he may be ready in time for school. It takes him a long 
time to get ready, because — because he does n't get out of bed for an hour or 
two after I crow." 

" How did you know all this ? " asked Pretty Hen. 

" I heard the cat talking to the dog about it," answered Small Rooster. 
"And now, I'd like to have my breakfast." 

" Well, I can't see what good your crowing so very early does the boy 
after all," said his mother, " if he does n't get up for an hour or two after you 
crow. And then there 's Saturday and Sunday and all sorts of holidays, 
when you do just the same. But, dear me ! " She went on wrinkling her 
forehead, and looking at him sharply. "What 's the good of talking. It 's 
my opinion that you crow just to hear yourself crow, as many older and 
bigger roosters do." 

Then she gave him his breakfast, for she was his mother ; and, as you 
all know, mothers are so forffivinor! 


! certainly, open the door : 
We have n't the least privacy ; 

Dear me ! 
You never do knock 
And we have n't a lock. 
So you 've come for a Four-o'clock-Tea, 

I see. 



)UT how do you know that we dolls 
Are happy at Four-o'clock-Teas 

Like these ? 
(Oh! you 're hurting my back, 
For I 've had an attack 
Of acute fol-de-rols. 

How you squeeze ! 
Don't, please.) 

O Miss Fanny is coming, is she? 
And you want us to put on our best? 

We 're dressed 
Twenty-six times a day : 
Oh ! you call it play ? 
What we want, it must be confessed, 

Is rest." 





GoOD-MORROW, my Valentines! February is a 
short month, although this year — as I am told — 
it gires you an extra clay, and even then does n't 
quite make a month of itself; but it has done a 
good turn for this country by giving us one George 
Wasliington, of whom you all have heard. So we 
must not complain. 

Then, again, it 's supposed to be rather an affec- 
tionate, even a sentimental month. It freezes, but 
then it thaws, too, and so lays claim to a goodly 
share of sensibility. I prefer January myself, or 
even lilustering March — that one unconvinced 
juryman of the twelve, as the deacon calls him, 
who never gives in till he is almost ready to go. 
But, all things considered, perhaps, for twenty-nine 
days before March comes, we may as well agree to 
be satisfied with February, and to honor him for 
old Winter's sake. 

And now you shall have a letter from a school- 
girl, asking 


De\r Jack-in-the-Pi'LPIT : A eirl in the red school-house re- 
cently took a bottle of smelling-salts from her pocket, and when 
a^ked by the dear little school-ma'am what she had there she replied, 
" hartshorn," and added that she used it "to help a slight head- 

The little school-ma'am, after expressing sympathy with our school- 
male, asked if any of us knew anything about hartshorn, and why 
it was called by that name. 

We all tried, but not one of us could answer her correctly, 
though some of us older girls said it had something to do with 
ammonia. I have found out since; but 1 think, with your permission, 
I '11 pass along the questions to your larger class, dear Jack. The 
little school-ma'am says I may. 

Your young friend, A SCHOOL-CIRL. 


A FRIEND of Deacon Green, Miss Ellen V. Tal- 
bot, has written some lines for St. Nicholas, 
which go straight to the old gentleman's heart. He 
begs me, therefore, to show them to my boys with 
his best regards, and to say that it would have 

saved him a good deal cf unnecessary and fatiguing 
admiration of himself in early life, had he read 
just such verses at that time. 

But if you imagine, from this, that our deacon 
undervalues a mother's praise, you are wofuUy mis- 
taken, my friends. No, indeed. He only thinks 
that, as a rule, mothers do not always give cjuite 
so correct an idea of their sons' beauiy as the av- 
erage untouched photographs do. That's all. 

A MOTHER once owned just a common-place boy, 

A shock-headed boy, 

A freckle-faced boy. 

But thought he was handsome and said so with 

joy ; 

For mothers are funn)', you know. 

Quite so — 

About their sons' beauty, you know. 

His nose, one could see, was not Grecian, but 

And turned up quite snug. 
Like the nose of a jug; 
But she said it was " piquant," and gave him a hug: 

For mothers are funny, you know. 

Quite so — 

About their sons' beauty, you know. 

His eyes were cjuite small, and he blinked in the 

But she said it was done 
As a mere piece of fun 
And gave an expression of wit to her son ; 

For mothers are funny, you know. 

Quite so — 

About their sons' beauty, you know. 

The carroty love-locks that covered his head 

She never called red, 

But auburn instead. 

'■ The color the old Masters painted," she said; 

For mothers are funny, you know. 

Quite so — 

About their sons' beauty, you know. 

Now, boys, when your mothers talk so, let it pass; 

Don't look in the glass, 

Like a vain, silly lass, 

But go tend the baby, pick chips, weed the grass;. 

Be as good as you 're pretty, you know, 

Quite so — 

As good as you 're pretty, you know. 


ParA, November, 1SS7. 

Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit : You like, do you not, to hear 
about out-of-the-way places '? So let me tell you of our experiences in 
an Amazonian bathing-place called Soure. 1 his is near Parn, on a 
river in the great island ot Marajo. The surl-baihing, except for 
scenery, is not unlike that at Elberon, New Jerse}', though there are 
no ropes to hold on to, and the bathing-houses :u-e palm-thatched 
choiipanos. The Indian huts about are very picturesque, and not 
very untidy, so we often made thirst an excuse to get a glimpse 
of the interi'jr and chat with the hospitable occupants. The church 
we passed daily was an oddity; the church and prison being in one 
biulding, and the convicts favored with considerable libertjr. 

Soure is .a fishin.g village, so we had an abundance of fish — of rather 
indifferent kinds, however. 

Visits outside the town are made either by canoe or on ox-back ; 
the poor, patient oxen looked so queerly when saddled. 



The quaintest of all wells ever seen, I think, is the great public 
well of Soure. It is in the middle of the \ill3ge green, glorioiis 
mango-trees bordering it; and here, at all hours of the day, come 
and go loitering, chaitering blacks, carrying on their heads, like 
second heads, jars, pails, old kerosene and butter-lins — in fact, 
almost anything that can hold water. 

Good-bye, from your constant hstener (though at a long distance). 

Amy E. S . 


Dear Jack: In reading an interesting book called "ATourin 
Mexico and Califnmia," 1 came upon a part where the author, Mr. 
J. H. Bates, speaks of a curious wr^y of obtaining ice. On one very 
not day in February, not far from the ciiy of Leon, in Mexico, he 
saw a great niiinbi^r of the leaves of the maguey lying upon the 
ground. These were filled with a thin layer of water, and they had 
been placed there by tne natives in order to obtain tlic thin coa'.s of 
ice which would be for ned on each Icafduring the night. I'hese 
thin flakes, I believe, are collected and stored nway in the ground 
for early use. Since then I have read more about the maruey, 
and as some of your hearers also may be glad to look into the sub- 
ject, I send you this letter. Your faithful tricnd, Marv D . 


Talking of Mexico, this same friend (Mary D ) 
tells me that the cactus arrows to a great heic:cht in 

that country. One variety, the organ cactus, as 
she learns from Mr. Bates's book, "has a smglc 
straight stem, made up of parts several feet long, 
six-sided, and joined so as to make one perfect 
trunk, with joints hardly visible." The larger of 
these cactus-stems that Mr. Bates sawj not far from 
the city of Leon, arc six inches in diameter. He 
sa)s the people plant these organ cacti side by 
side, and so form close, strong, living fences that 
answer their purpose admirably. 


Arro.o Grand, Cal., Oct. 16, 1887. 
Dear Jack : There Is a sycamore-tree rn our land that appears 
to be a favorite nursery for birds. Ihree years ago a pair of 
flickers or high-holJers made their hole in it ; next year ihey, or 
oihers like ihem, used it again, and this year they uscdit still again. 
After they left this year, a pair of bluebirds made a nest in the hole 
and raised iheir young and went away. Not more than two days 
afier they left, a pair of swallows came in, took possession, raided 
their children, and went off. Did you ever know of such a case? 

Edw. Allen. 


By S. Mary Norton. 


For nearly three months Karl lay in the chil- 
dren's ward of the hospital and looked at a piece of 
whitewashed wall. The window was at the head 
of his cot, so that he could not look out, and two 
screens shut out what was on either side of him. 
The doctor said he must not read nor have frequent 
visitors, and that he must sleep and "be stupid" as 
much as possible. But Karl could not sleep nor be 
stupid all the time, and in the long hours between 
the visits of the doctor or the comings of the 
nurse with beef-tea or milk, when there was noth- 
ing to do but lie still and look at the wall, he 
thought he would die of loneliness and pain. That, 
however, was before he really saw the wall. When 
he began to see the people in it, he would not have 
exchanged it for a window, a book, or several 
ordinary visitors. At first he only noticed that 
the fresh whitewash was chipped off in spots, and 
showed the dingier coat below. Then, suddenly, 
a soldier with a great hat came out, — a grave-look- 
ing soldier marching along, — with his head bent 
down as in a well-known picture of Napoleon. He 
was tall and thin, though — perhaps he was Welling- 
ton. But look! there behind him was an aid-de- 

camp, and the grinning faces of two suspicious 
characters. The aid-dc-camp did not look serious. 
Perhaps it was a holiday procession and the tall 
soldier was a drum- major, Karl thought. Why, 
of course; there was a funny Punchinello off at the 
rear, and in the front two dominos — one holding 
a torch. It was the carnival at Venice ! Karl's 
father had read to him about it from a big volume 
a short time before. And there was a man with a 
wooden leg. Was he an old tar ? Perhaps it 
was Mr. Wegg. Karl hoped it was, for Silas had 
been one of his favorites. Karl had read a great 
deal — a great deal too much, the doctor said, 
for a delicate boy of ten. But there had been 
little else for Karl to do out of school hours ; for he 
could not play in the streets, and he had no brother 
nor sister nor mother to play with him at home, 
and his father was all day at the theaters, painting 
scenes. I don't know what he would have done 
in the little room at the boarding-house, if it had 
not been for his father's case of books ; and 1 don't 
know what he could have done in the hospital if 
these people had not come out upon the wall ; for he 
had a mind and heart that would not stay empty. 



But every day he could see new figures. By and 
by, an old man with a gray beard — Friar Tuck, 
Karl thought — came 
to the carnival, hold- 
ing a leather bag of ,^ 
wine. He poured some 
out into a champagne- 
glass that an old wo- 
man held. The next 
one that came was a 
most absurdly fantastic 
creature, who held her 
skirts with one bon)' J 
hand and courtesied to ~~ ' ' 
the dancing bear with a queer head look 
ing like a man's face put on crooked, so as to 

look wrong side before, and 
Mr. Wegg. Then, behind, 
near the Punchinello, two 
solemn brothers turned their 
backs on the carnival, and 
went down into the Cata- 
combs with a torch. At least 
Karl thought they were 
going into the Catacombs ; 
though it puzzled him to 
think that the Catacombs 
were in Rome and the car- 
nival was at Venice; and 
he was not sure, either, 
that any body but early 
Christians and modern tour- 
ists ever went into the 
Catacombs, and none of 
them dressed like monk, 
or bishop, or priest. But 
then there were a great 

many puzzling things about the wall. Mr. 

Wcgg's being at the carnival was one ; and the Lady 

- /■ 

of the Lake's being there, too, was another. She 
appeared one day in her little skiff, with a high 
cap. She seemed a great way off; but Karl 
was sure it was she, and rather hoped she might 
come nearer. One morning she came out with 
a smaller cap than she had worn the day before. 
There was a large-sized flake of whitewash on 
the floor beneath. 

Karl could tell a great deal more about the de- 
lightful, strange, and queer people who came out 
of this wonderful wall by the time he became well 
enough to walk with the aid of crutches. He 
knew them very well indeed before then, and 
they made him happy for many hours. I don't 
know much more about them, except that the 
wall has been whitewashed again and that they 
are not there now. 


Mrs. Barr's Russian Christmas stor>', " Michael and Feodosia," 
printed in this number, was unavoidably omitied from the January 
issue 'for which it was written), because the engraving of the large 
illustration could not be completed in time foi its appearance last 
month. The story will be no less welcome to our readers, who in 
one sense are now gainers by this after-Christmas gift. 

We have received several letters complaining that the " Song of 
tlie Bee," recently printed in this magazine, had been published long 
before, and in several quarters ; and, later, a communication from 
Marion Douglass has come to us, in response to our inquiries, stating 
that she wrote the poem in question for the " Nursery " in the year 

We can only regret our recent reproduction of the same lines, 
under the signature of another writer. They were accepted in good 
faith by St. Nicholas, as at that time we had, of course, no knowl- 
edge of the earlier publication. 

Caution to Young PHOTocnAPiiEiis. 

A correspondent at Cambridge, Mass., writing of the use of 
cyanide of potassium in making ferrotype pictures, calls attention to 
the danger arising from its character as a poison, and urges the use 
of hyposulphite of soda instead of the cyanide as advised in the 
paragraph on ferrotypes in the December St. Nicholas. In mak- 
ing "tin-types" by the old method, cyanide is commonly held by 
photographers to produce a much better result than the " hypo," 
and is the ingredient in general use. Fortunately, the new dry- 
plate method of tin-typing docs away ultli the necessity for using 
the poison. This new method, referred to in the November num- 
ber, is, for this and other reasons, much better for the amateur. 
Hyposulphite of soda is used in fixing the dr>'-p!ates. 

At the editor's request. I would here warn amateur photographers 
that they should remember that many of the chemicals they use are 
more or less poisonous. Sulphuric acid, for instance, used in mak- 
ing up developers, is to be handled with the greatest care. Bottles 
containing such acids should be kept in a safe place, and distinctly 
labeled It is not a bad plan to wear a pair of gloves when handling 
them. Alexander Black. 

Another Me. 

An answer to Grace Denio Litchfield's poem, "My Other Me,' 
in the St. Nicholas for November.] 

children in the valley, 
Do you ever chance to meet 

A little maid I used to know. 
With lightly tripping feet ? 

Her name is Alice ; and her heart 
Is happy as the day ; 

1 pray you, greet her kindly. 
If she should cross your way. 

But you need n't bring her back to me; 

To tell the truth, you know, 
I have no wish to be again 

That child of long ago. 

Of course, it 's lovely to beyning. 

Sheltered from heat and cold ; 
But let me whisper in your car : 
" It 's nice, too, to be old." 

You see, my lessons all are learned; 

Avoir and etre I know 
Clear through, subjunctive, qice and all, 

That used to bother so. 

Geometry I touch no more; 

And history 1 read 
Instead of learning it by heart 

As I had to once, indeed. 

It 's true, I don't read fairy tales 

With quite the zest of yore; 
But then I write them with a zest 
I never felt before. 

Of course, I 'm very old; but then, 

If I wish to play, you see, 
There is up here upon the heights 

Another little me. 

He 's ten years old and he 's a boy; 

A mischievous young elf; 
But I like him every bit as well 

As I used to like myself. 

You need n't send that little girl. 

Whose heart was full of joy, 
Back to me now ; I 'd rather keep. 

Instead of her, my boy ! 

Don't fear to climb, dear children, 

So slowly day by day. 
Out of the happy valley 

Up to the heights' away. 

I know it 's lovely to be young, 
Sheltered from heat and cold ; 
But let me whisper in your ear : 
"It ' J nicer to be old. 

Alice Wellington Rollins. 

Halifax, N. S. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I saw a letter in the November number 
about a kitten, and thought J would tell you about mine. 

It is a dear little Maltese kitten, and came all the way from St. 
John. I am sure my kitty enjoyed her day in the drawing-room car, 
although you maybe sure she was not there much of the time. Far 
from it — she was every where. 

As my mother was leaving the station, she was handed through 
the window by the son of the lady whom mother had been visiting. 
The basket had a net over the top, but pussy soon got her head 
through that; Indeed, it was wonderful she did not choke getting out 
of that basket. One minute she would be in the smoking-car, on 
some gentleman's back, and the next she would be sleeping peace- 
fully in mamma's lap. However, she was brought home safely, and 
is now learning to jump and beg very nicely. 

I enjoy your magazine very much, ajid indeed the whole family 
do, especially my faiher. I have taken you for five years. 
Your admiring reader, 

Essie T . 

Sonoma, Cal. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little girl eleven years old, and live 
in Sonoma. I love to read you. "Juan and Juanita " was a very 
pretty story. I always enjoy the Letter-box. I think it might 
Interest some readers to hear about my pets; as my dog is dead, I 
have only four, but one is a very rare one. I have a pony, who is 
rather old: a black cat, a canary, and a monkey. He is a very 
curious little fellow ; his name is " Yetto " ; his size is about one foot. 
" Yetto " has smooth gray and black hair, a small pmk face, and a 
funny long tail; he has large, brown, expressive eye?. I have tried 
for a year to tame him, but in vain ; he runs and romps about in 
Papa's conservatory, and at night curls up in a box, in a soft shawl. 
He lets me feed him with bananas, grapes, apples, and milk, and 
bread; but If I try to touch him he makes a queer noise, "chink," 
and rushes up the bin gum-tree. I dnn't go to school, but take 
lessons at home, English. German, French, and music, and in the 
afternoon I play with mv four litt'e cousins, — our gardens He oppo- 
site, — theirnames are Willy, Frida, Doris, and Ernest, the baby. We 
have glorious times, and splendid games together. Good-bye, dear 
St. Nicholas. Your constant reader, 

Agnes D . 




Chicago, 111. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I seldom see letters from thiscity in your 
" Leiier-box." 

I enjoy the "Personally Conducted " series by Mr. Frank R. 
Stocktun the most of all. \Vc take thein to school, and our teacher 
read.-, tliuni lo us as we come to the countriLS. I hope thai Mr. 
Slockloii will write some more. 

I have not any pets, as most of your correspondents have, but I 
have something that is much better, five brothers and sisiers. 

With hopes that you will publish my letter, I remain, yours truly, 

Katharine B . 

\Vashin(jTon, D. C. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I am a little girl, eight years old. I was 
born heie in Washington, and all my life have lived where I could 
see the beautiful Capitol, with the "Goddess of Liberty" on 
top of the dome. I used to think she was an Indian, when I was 
yoimger. We have been taking you a long lime. I enjoyed the 
story of ■' Little Lord Fauntlcroy " ever so much, and hope the same 
lady that wrote it will soon wnie another one as sweet as that was. 
I like your dog stories, too. We had a dear little dog. Her name 
was Belle. She was so smnrt ! One day we went out for a ride, and 
shut her up in the back-yard; but when we returned she had dug a 
hole under the fence, and was having a fine frolic nut in the street. 
The next day, when we went out. my brother chained her up in the 
stable. When we came home, she had hung herself by jumping 
over a beam. Fortunately, she was still alive. We concluded she 
was too lively for a city dog, and gave her to a kind farmer. 

Your little friend, Pearl L. H . 

Beauty is timid and does not play so much, except when you pull a 
string around the room. She plays with the little kitten sometimes, 
not often. 

Beauty will knock on the door if she is left out long enough. Once 
Beauty brought one of the little kittens up-stairs to the third floor 
from the cellar, but she had to drop it on every step ; when she 
got on the last step she was so tired that she had to pant. One day 
my mother went up-stairs, and there was Beauty and the kitten. 
She went to the lounge and took the little kitten in her hands, but 
Beauty knocked it out. Wy motlier thought it might be a mistake, 
but she did it again. Just then our dressmaker came in, and my 
mother told her about it. Then lo show that it was true, she went 
to the lounge and took it in her hand, but Beauty knocked it out the 
third lime. Smut will lake pop-corn iti her paws and eat it just the 
same as a squirrel would eat nuts. We think a good deal of our 
cats. Franiv T . 

Portsmouth, Ohio. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I have a question that I would like to ask 
your readers. Probably some of your English triends can answer it. 
Why were not all the kings of England crowned immediately 
upon ascending the throne? 

I will this Christmas commence my eighth year of taking the St. 
Nicholas. I would n't give it up under any considerations. 

Your friend, M. M. M . 

Dallas, Texas. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I see in your Letter-box many questions 
and answers, so I thought I would get you to answer one tor me ; 
or, if you have not time, please publish it, and let any who will, 
answer it. 

The distance from Station A lo Station B, on the railroad, is five 
miles. I'he caboose ot a freight-train one mile long leaves Station A ; 
the conductor is on the caboose. When the c^iginc reaches Station 
B, the conductor is on the engine, having walked the length of the 
train while it was moving. How far has he ridden ? and how far has 
he walked? 

I do not ask this for mere idle curiosity. I am seeking informa- 
tion ; and by answering, you will greatly oblige 

Your sincere friend and well-wisher, Fannie F . 

Stratford, Canada. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little girl, not yet seven years old. 
N(me of your little friends love you more than I do. My Uncle 
Jack who lives in Eattleford, N. W. T. , sends you to me. I have 
had you one year. I like your stories so much, and can read them 
quite well. This place is called after Shakespeare's birthplace, 
and the river, too, is called Avon, and the wards of the city after 
character.=i in his plays, such as Romeo ward, Hamlet ward, etc. 
We have great fun here in winter, tobogganing .nnd sleigh-rid- 
ing. I hope I may see this in print, lor I have often wiitten lo 
you but ne\er made my letters neat enough to send. I do not go to 
school — my mother teaches me for one hour every day. 

Your loving little friend, Nora IVI . 

Stillwater, Minn. 
Dear St. Nicholas : We have never seen any letters from this 
place, so we thought we would write one. We are two " chums " (in 
school-girl language), and are members of a delightful club called 
the " Belmont." We have no dumb creatures for pets, as most boys 
and girls who write to the St. Nicholas have ; but one of us has a 
dear little baby brother, who is just the cutest and liveliest little fel- 
low you ever saw. His name is Tom; and as the the other has no 
pets, we " go haUes," so to speak. We are looking forward to the 
completion of a high-school building with great delight, as we ex- 
pect to enter the school as soon as the building is completed. We 
both think the St. Nicholas the best and most interesting mag- 
a2iue published, and were wild over " Little Lord Fauntleroy " and 
"Juan and Juanita," besides numerous other stori'js — especially 
Miss Alcott's. Hoping that our letter is not loo long to be pub- 
lished, we remain 

Your devoted admirers, 

Bay S . and Helen P. K . 

Notting Hill, London, W. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I have never written to you before, but I 
hope my letter will be printed. I have taken you for more than a 
year, and like you very nmch. My two favorite stories are "Juan 
and Juanita " and "Jenny's Boarding-house." I have just had one 
year's copies boimd, and am going to have the same next year. We 
havejust come home from the sea-side, where we were staying for twj 
months; my brother and I bathed every day, and very often weiU 
out fishing. I am the only one at home, as my brother goes to school 
We had two little canaries, but one died the other day, so now we 
only have one. It is so tame that it will perch on my fingers or my 
head. It flies about the room nearly all day, and once I found it in a 
room with the window open — but it never attempted to get out. I 
must now end, as I have nothing more lo say. Ijelieve me. 

Yours sincerely